


And If Our Souls Should Listen

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at Mickey's relationship with the rest of the Gallaghers. Post-season four.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lip walked in the kitchen to the sight of Fiona cooking what looked like a meal big enough for two of their families. She was putting an almost-cooked turkey back into the oven, a pot of potatoes sat on the stove, and, wait- were those steaks next to the fridge? Not to mention a heaping plate of chocolate chip cookies.

“What’s the occasion? PO? CPS? New boyfriend?” Lip asked as he dropped his bags in the middle of the floor and grabbed a cookie.

“Uh, Mickey,” Fiona said, throwing the oven mitt down and wiping her hands on her jeans. “So how’s school goin’? Makin’ the Gallagher clan proud?”

“What about Mickey?” Lip replied, ignoring what seemed like an attempt to change the subject quickly.

“He’s comin’ over for dinner.” She grabbed the milk out of the fridge, poured some into the potato pot, and started mashing.

“Why?”

“I invited him.”

Lip sat at the counter across from her and waited a moment before saying more. “I’m sorry, was that supposed to clear up the situation for me?”

Fiona stopped her mashing and looked up at her brother. “I just thought we should spend some time with him.”

“Why the fuck would you think that?”

“Look, like it or not, Ian loves him. And it seems to me that Mickey feels the same. So if Mickey insists on taking care of him, I just think we should make an effort.”

“An effort to what? Suck up to him? Why, to make sure he’ll let us in his house when we wanna see Ian?”

Fiona glared at him. “He’s been taking care of Ian for a while now. Would you want to do that? Spend every day with someone who either can’t get outta bed or can’t chill out long enough to sleep? Hard ass or not, it’s gotta be hard for him. Taking care of someone who ninety percent of the time barely resembles his boyfriend.”

“No one’s making him.”

“Exactly. If he’s willing to go through all this with Ian, _for_ Ian, he can’t be as bad as we thought. I’m not saying be best friends with the guy. It’s just that it would be nice to have a decent relationship with him.”

Lip fiddled with Debbie’s shiv that was sitting on the counter. “Yeah well, we’ll see if you still feel that way when Mickey decides he’s tired of playing house. Sooner or later he’s gonna drop Ian off on our doorstep and peace the fuck out.”

“If he does, we can’t say we didn’t try. And we’ll deal with it. But after all this, you really think that’s how it’s gonna play out?”

“He’s a Milkovich. And an asshole.”

Fiona’s face turned somber. “If people judged you on your last name, with Frank and Monica as references, they probably wouldn’t think much of you either. Don’t do that. His last name doesn’t make him anything.”

She was right, and Lip knew it. When people heard ‘Gallagher’ they probably thought of drunk, conniving Frank or crazy, deadbeat Monica or even smartass Lip or faggot Ian or cokehead Fiona or sociopath Carl. There was doubtfully ever a positive connotation with their name. Lip tried but failed to deny the truth in her comment, so he ignored it. “Well being an asshole does. It sure as shit wouldn’t be the first time he’s hurt Ian.”

“People change.”

Lip chuckled. “Wow, metal motel teach you some valuable life lessons? Have you found Jesus, too? You and Mickey gonna go on some Bible camp retreat together?”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Just one more thing; I know you were locked up for some of it, but you do realize Mickey spent some time practically living here, right? And he never got served a gourmet meal? Or even saw the place halfway clean? You really think all this is necessary?”

“Shut up and pick up your crap.” Lip stood up and grabbed his bags from the middle of the floor and threw them into a corner instead. Fiona pursed her lips and glared at him but didn’t bother arguing.

“Ian gonna be joining him?”

“Nope.”

“Is that by choice or because he can’t get out of bed?” This sentence lacked the snark and malice that his previous ones had carried. And it almost hurt to say because it wasn’t a joke, or an exaggeration. It had become their life. Ian’s life. It had become typical to ask if he was mobile or bed-ridden any given day.

“I asked Mickey to come alone.”

“Lucky us.”

Just then, Carl and Debbie came trampling through the backdoor.

“Hey kiddos, how’s the lovely public school system treating ya?”

Debbie and Carl both threw there things on the floor where Lip’s had been moments earlier. Carl flipped Lip off and sat down at the table while Debbie pranced into the kitchen.

“Oooh, what’s the occasion?” Debbie asked, lifting the lid of a pan to find steamed carrots.

“Mickey’s coming over. Can you please take your stuff up to your rooms? People need to walk on this floor.”

“You cooked for Mickey?” she asked, ignoring Fiona’s request. “Is it his birthday or something?”

“Not that I know of,” Fiona replied with an annoyed smirk, clearly irritated by her siblings’ blunders at something as simple as her cooking a goddamn meal. “Bags. Now.”

Debbie picked up both hers and Carl’s bags and threw them on the stairs.

Fiona put her hands on her hips and shot Debbie an incredulous look. “Seriously?”

“Why do they get a special dinner?” Debbie asked, grabbing the orange juice out of the fridge and pouring herself a glass. She took a seat at the table next to Carl who had taken the shiv from Lip and was now carving something into his history book.

“Not they, just Mickey. I asked him not to bring Ian.”

Debbie sat her glass down and looked back and forth from Lip to Fiona worriedly. “What happened?”

“Did Ian pull a Monica?” Carl asked.

“No! And enough with the shiv, Carl. CPS sees that and I doubt you’ll be living here much longer.”

“Well what happened?” Debbie asked again, raising her voice.

“Nothing! Jesus Christ, can’t a girl just do something nice for someone every once in a while? Or is this family allergic to grand gestures?” Fiona couldn’t really say she didn’t understand where they were coming from; just 30 minutes ago she had been laughing at herself for going to so much trouble for _Mickey Milkovich_. If someone has told her a year ago that she’d be making a gluttonous meal on his behalf she would have laughed them out the door. Yet here she was, cooking steak and turkey and mashed potatoes and fucking _gravy._ But her siblings had to at least kind of get it, right? That had to agree that what he was doing for Ian was, dare she say, deserving of one stinkin’ home cooked meal, didn’t they?

Lip turned to face Debbie and Carl. “She wants us to get to know Mickey. Have a heart to heart with him so he’s less likely to fall off the face of the earth when he gets sick of being a kindhearted caretaker.”

“Enough!” Fiona barked. “Mickey is coming over for dinner. All of you take your shit upstairs. Someone get Liam cleaned up, and Carl, put the weapons in a baby-proof zone.”

Lip walked into the living room and Fiona heard him talk to Liam before carrying him up the stairs. Debbie picked up their backpacks (but not before making sure Fiona could see her eye roll) and trotted upstairs as well. Fiona considered calling after her to wash her damn orange juice glass that she had left at the table but decided against it, not wanting to waste her breath on yet another argument.

Carl waited for Debbie and Lip to leave the room before getting up from the table himself and walking over to Fiona. He watched her check on the carrots and the turkey and then spoke up.

“You think Mickey’s gonna get sick of taking care of Ian?”

Fiona tried to hide the surprise on her face. It wasn’t often that Carl made a serious comment amount Ian’s illness. “I have no idea. But if he does, we’ll be ready, right?”

Carl made a slight nod and then looked down. Fiona gave a reassuring smile, ruffled his hair and went back to the potatoes.

“I don’t think he will,” Carl said, and then made his way upstairs. Fiona smiled to herself. If that was the closest any of them could get to saying they accepted Mickey, then she’d take it.


	2. Chapter 2

Mickey approached the front door of the Gallagher house and reached for the handle, hesitating. He felt stupid that the question of whether or not he should knock was causing his hand to linger over the metal knob. He’d barged in without knocking plenty of times, but this felt different. This wasn’t him coming to hang out with Ian or him dropping by to pick up some of Ian’s clothes and shit (which started as him trying to sneak in when no one was home to avoid the looks and questions, but of course nine times out of ten that plan went to shit and turned into everyone throwing clothes and books and toiletries and food at him and sending their love with him as he went on his merry freaking way back to their “pitiful” brother. Mickey hated the pity they showed Ian, almost as much as Ian hated it.)

No, this time was different. He was an _invited guest._ As soon as those two pretty little words entered his mind he shoved them back out. Fuck this, he was a grown ass man standing in front of a door deciding whether or not he should fucking knock on the goddamn thing. Enough of that shit.

He finally let his hand firmly grasp the metal and shove the door open. When he entered the living room, he was relieved that the first person to greet him was Debbie.

“Hey, Mickey.” Although he’d never say it out loud, Debbie had kind of been his fucking savior these past few months. And what he would probably never even admit to himself let alone anyone else was that she seemed to understand him. He wasn’t even sure she was doing it on purpose, or that she was even aware of it, but she had given him quite a few reasons to silently thank God for her existence. Because sometimes he felt really fucking out of place or awkward or uncomfortable and she would just do something as simple as saying, “you can go, ya know?” Or sometimes she would change the subject or get the attention off of him when Mickey felt like his face and ears were burning red. Maybe they were, but Mickey liked to think she just picked up on his feelings telepathically. It seemed crazy, Mickey knew that it was crazy, but he swore Debbie could read him like a book. It was like she could tell as soon as she saw him how he was doing, or more importantly how _Ian_ was doing, so she often knew enough to avoid asking the slew of painful questions that the rest of her siblings insisted on prodding Mickey with.

“Hey,” he said back. ‘ _Debbie,’_ his brain almost followed with, but his mouth clamped up and wouldn’t allow it. Saying her name would mean showing affection, and he sure as hell wasn’t ready for that yet.

“Fiona made the meal of the century for you,” she told him as she walked into the kitchen, wordlessly coaxing him to follow. Meal of the century, huh? He really wished she hadn’t. He actually really wished that she hadn’t invited him over in the first place, but he guessed that point was moot now.

He followed Debbie into the kitchen, stopping just inside the doorway as Debbie continued to the counter.

“Is it done yet?” she asked Fiona, leaning with her elbows and forearms on the counter, rocking from tip-toes to her heels and back again.

“I believe it is!” Fiona turned to look at Mickey, a huge smile plastered on her face. “Hey, Mickey! I didn’t even hear you come in. Have a seat. Beer?” She opened the fridge and grabbed him one before he could answer.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he replied anyway, taking a seat at the table. “Thanks.”

“Lip! Carl! Dinner!”

As Fiona washed her hands in the kitchen sink, Mickey leaned over to Debbie who had taken a seat next to him and whispered, “She back on the coke?”

Debbie laughed quietly and ignored the fact that Mickey was being almost serious with that question.

Just then, Lip came trotting down the stairs with Liam in tow. “Well, if it isn’t out knight in Southside armor,” he said, taking a seat across from Mickey.

“Fuck off.”

“Hi, Mickey!” Liam’s greeting was much warmer than Lip’s. Mickey gave the closest thing to a smile that he was willing to show.

“Hey, little man.”

Fiona placed the pot of mashed potatoes on the table. “Lip, you mind helping me put the food on the table?”

Mickey was pretty sure of the five of them in the room, Liam was the only one who didn’t get that that meant ‘come over here out of earshot of Mickey so I can tell you something,’ but Mickey went along with it and started a game of red hands with Liam. (He even let him win most of the time. When did he become such a softie?)

Lip got up to help Fiona and Mickey continued to pretend to be oblivious. Fiona pulled on the back of Lip’s shirt and whispered what Mickey was ninety-six percent sure was “be nice” before trying to look casual again by grabbing more food to bring to the table and screaming for Carl to get his ass downstairs.

“Alright, bon appetit!” she said as she placed the last of the food on the table.

Mickey watched the Gallaghers dig in. Lip and Carl threw elbows to see who could get to the steaks first. Debbie made Liam’s plate and Liam threw the carrots on the ground. Fiona told him to keep them on the plate while also giving a noncommittal chastising to Lip and Carl. For there only being five Gallaghers in front of him, they sure sounded like a lot more. Mickey found himself imaging what their family dinners were like before Ian left when all six of the Gallagher kids lived there, and even Frank and/or Monica once in a while, and probably Kev and V from time to time. The thought caused a dull pain in his stomach, in the part of him that seemed to be missing. The part that seemed to ache often ever since Ian came back. He actually fucking wished he could have been there for a classic Gallagher dinner, complete with the Old Ian. He would have loved to have seen that. Or maybe he just missed the simplicity of how things used to be (and didn’t that seem funny?). Who knows; he was getting too fucking soft.

Mickey was, however, grateful in this moment that there was a lot of ruckus and not one eye on him. He would love to simply sink back into the shadows the entire dinner. But he knew it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped; he wasn’t invited over because he was their favorite half of the couple.

It wasn’t two minutes after everyone got their food that Fiona started in on him.

“So, Mickey, how are you?”

“Fine,” he said around a bite of turkey.

Lip smirked as he brought his glass up to his lips. “Wow, with that description it’s like I can actually feel it.” He took a drink of his orange juice and looked too fucking pleased with himself.

Fiona shot Lip a look that Mickey supposed he wasn’t supposed to notice. “How’s business?” she asked, turning her body more towards Mickey.

He almost, _almost_ , said ‘are you seriously trying to make casual conversation by asking me about my fucking whorehouse?’ but he bit his tongue and instead went with, “It’s alright.”

Lip scoffed and Fiona decided to get to the point, Mickey supposed. “And Ian? How’s he doin’?”

Mickey moved the food around on his plate with his fork, avoiding eye contact with any of the Gallaghers. “He’s alright.” And then, before Lip could make another comment about his abundant vocabulary and willingness to share, he decided he might as well be honest with them. “Been talking about moving a lot lately.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fiona look around at the others worriedly, then back to Mickey, who was still looking at his mashed potatoes like he saw the face of Jesus in them.

“You guys having problems?” Fiona asked, fishing for more info.

“No.” Mickey paused, like getting himself to form words around these people was an uphill battle. “He wants me to go with him.”

“Wait, like, _move_ move?” Lip chimed in. “Like, out of the Southside?”

“Like out of Chicago?” Fiona’s voice had a hint of panic in it that she was clearly trying to hide from the kids, but her wide eyed gave away all her concern.

“Like, out of the Midwest.” Mickey took a bite of the Jesus mashed potatoes. He suddenly wasn’t a bit hungry anymore, with all these eyes on him, but he needed something to keep him occupied.

Fiona furrowed her brow at that response and her whole bravado was definitely blown at that point. “What? Move where?”

“Depends on when you ask him.” Mickey kept chewing, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “Sometimes it’s New York, sometimes California, sometimes fuckin’ Wyoming.”

“Well, at least he’s keeping it in the continental US.” Mickey could see that Lip was concerned too, but that didn’t stop him from throwing in his sarcastic quip. Mickey figured Lip gave himself a quota to fill; every other sentence _had_ to be sarcastic to keep up his mantra.

“Nah, he was big on Alaska the other day.”

Lip slammed his palms down on either side of his plate, feigning shock. “Well I’ll be damned. Mickey Milkovich actually knows what ‘continental’ means?”

Mickey flipped him off and continued. “Not to mention the time he tried to convince me that we could backpack across Europe and find a place we like and just fucking move there. Like a fucking fairytale or some shit.” He said it nonchalantly, like it hadn’t been a big deal that Ian had brought the idea up. Like it was perfectly normal and in-character that Ian thought it was completely realistic. Like the fact that Ian was hell bent on doing that didn’t scare the living shit out of him.

“You guys aren’t really gonna go anywhere, are you?” This time it was Debbie speaking up, and for a second Mickey kind of almost thought that her voice was saying that she would miss them both if they were gone. Then he slapped that thought out of his head because _man_ were these fucking Gallaghers seriously turning him into a pussy who thinks about things like _that._

Mickey made a face saying that the fact that they were even this deep into this conversation was fucking stupid. “We can’t even afford to go to a fucking Sox game, you think we’re gonna move to the other side of the world?”

Fiona, the mother hen that she was, wasn’t convinced. “But, you don’t think he would go without you? Just, pick up and go somewhere on his own?”

The worry and desperation in her voice _almost_ made Mickey feel bad for her. Because, yeah, that is totally something that manic Ian would do, and they all knew it. (As soon as the thought crossed his mind he mentally chastised himself for referring to him as ‘manic Ian,’ because it was just fucking _Ian_. Except it wasn’t). Instead of voicing this, he told a different truth – the one that left out the part where Ian was so fucking unpredictable these days he could be in Belgium right now for all he knew.

“Look, the vibe I got was he wasn’t going anywhere without me. But what the hell do I know?” He added, because if Ian did bolt he sure as hell didn’t want the Gallagher’s holding a knife to his throat screaming _‘you said he wouldn’t go!’_ He certainly wouldn’t put it passed them.

“Yeah, that’s kind of what I’m thinking.”

“ _Lip._ ” This time Fiona was definitely not attempting to hide her glare or the bite in her words from their guest.

“I’m just saying. What the fuck _does_ he know? I mean, we’re taking his word for things like it’s the fucking gospel.”

And at that, Mickey felt that he had tried to be civil long enough. “The fuck’s your problem? I haven’t done shit to you. What the hell’s got you so worked up?”

Mickey was sure this was three seconds away from turning into a rolling-on-the-ground fist fight, but somehow the girls put a stop to it before it began.

“God, can we please not?” Debbie said, groaning. She was trying to sound irritated but Mickey knew she was scared. Scared for Ian, and maybe scared for Mickey. And maybe scared that Mickey would fuck Lip up with his bare hands. (Or maybe that part was just in Mickey’s head).

“What about school? Any talk of him going back?” Fiona jumped in quickly before Lip had time to scream out another insult that would surely result in Mickey slugging him square in the jaw.

“Not if he’s smart,” Carl threw in and Fiona glared at him, pursing her lips. Mickey was betting that Carl felt a little cheated out of seeing a good rumble.

Mickey hoped Carl’s comment had meant he didn’t have to answer, but no such luck. Fiona turned back to him and raised her eyebrows, pushing for an answer. “Nope,” was all he gave her.

“Well, what are his plans? He can’t expect to work at the club forever.”

“Yeah, pretty sure once you’re out of your teens you’re considered too old for the fag grandpas in that place. I don’t know, sometimes he wants to move, become a starving artist or some shit, sometimes he says he’s gonna find the fucking cure for cancer. Who the fuck knows?”

“Maybe you could talk to him? About re-enrolling in school?” Fiona’s eyes were pleading, and never before had he seen any resemblance between her and Ian until that moment. “He might listen if it’s coming from you.”

“Yeah, let’s get the hoodlum high school dropout to convince Ian that high school is just the best darn place in the world. Great idea!”

“Enough.”

Lip ignored Fiona’s command. “No, but, hey – maybe he will listen to you,” he said as he turned to Mickey, aiming his fighting words at him again instead of Fiona. “I mean, we’ve seen how you’ve influenced him before. Like that time he joined the army because of you-“

Lip barely got the last word out of his mouth before his back was slammed against the wall. He shoved Mickey back, prompting Mickey to take a swing at his face. Mickey landed it, an audible crack heard as he made contact with Lip’s nose. Lip retaliated by throwing his own punch into Mickey’s stomach. Mickey doubled over, giving Lip the chance to knee him in the face. Mickey could feel the blood trickling down his chin, giving him incentive to throw Lip against the wall again and head-butt him.

The girls, of course, had been screaming the whole time for them to get off each other, and Carl was torn between wanting to watch and wanting to break it up. Mickey didn’t even notice their screams until Fiona attempted to pull them apart. She was shouting “knock it off!” and Mickey was pretty sure he heard Debbie shrieking “oh my God!” but when he realized Liam was crying he figured he’d better walk away. He shook Fiona off him and stepped back, signaling to Lip that he was done.

“Fuck you,” Mickey said, and it was unclear whether he was directing it solely at Lip or at all of them. “I knew I should have never fucking come.” He opened the back door and slammed it shut behind him.

Fiona ran her hands through her hair, looking exasperated. “Goddamnit,” she said, and followed Mickey out.

She ran across the backyard, calling after him.

“Hey! Wait! Mickey!” Her tone wasn’t warm or apologetic. Mickey knew she was pissed at him for starting the fight.

“Fuck off!” he yelled without turning around. He kept walking.

Fiona stopped running and the gap between them lengthened.

“Tell me one fucking thing, Mickey!”

Mickey sighed and stopped walking. He muttered a “fuck” under his breath, because he knew Fiona didn’t deserve one hundred percent of his anger. He turned halfway to glance at her.

“Why did you come?” In that sentence it was clear what she was saying. You sure as hell didn’t want to come, you knew what it was about, you knew what was going to happen. You didn’t have to come. So why didn’t you just stay the fuck home, Mickey?

Mickey rolled his eyes and laughed, but a smile was nowhere to be found.

“Why the fuck do you think?” And he turned back around and continued walking.

Fiona knew why he came. It wasn’t for her or Lip or Debbie. It wasn’t because he felt obligated to or because he felt bad declining.

He did it for the same reason he was doing all of this.

Ian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will come much more quickly than this one did. Pinky swear.
> 
> Find me on tumblr: backstreet-gurl.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

Fiona thought as the kids aged up things would only get easier. Sure, she still had to deal with Debbie’s bratty teenage years and maybe some more delinquent years from Carl, but she figured for the most part it would get easier. No more hounding Lip about high school; he was on his own, going to college, and not to mention the whole him not living at home anymore thing meant less water usage. And she had guessed that when Ian hit this age he’d be getting ready to head off to West Point or some other school. One less mouth to feed. It felt like a cruel way to look at it, but it was the truth. Liam was out of diapers which not only meant one less expense but also one less burden. Debbie and Carl were old enough to start contributing more to the squirrel fund. Life should be getting easier.

But, of course, that was far from the truth. The easiest years lay behind them; when Debbie was still a little angel, Carl was too young to get into any real trouble, and Lip and Ian were both home helping out.

And everyone was, for the most part, mentally stable.

Fiona had never anticipated any of this. That Debbie would rebel and push her away; that Lip would go to school close enough to home to still have one foot in the door, which wasn’t doing him any favors; that Carl of all people would bond with Frank, the last influence he needed; that she herself would lose control, hit rock bottom, and fuck everything up; that Liam would have nightmares that no one could do anything about; or that Ian, who she thought would always be a rock, would take after dear old Monica and lose control himself.

No, things were definitely not easier. Not one bit.

But she had no choice but to try to pick up the pieces and glue them, as sloppily as it may be, back together.

So she certainly couldn’t let Lip unravel from the family spool. Not now. Well, not ever, but _especially_ not. Fucking. Now.

She walked angrily back into the house, slamming the door behind her. She stood with her back against it for a moment, eyes closed, fists clenched, teeth gritted.

“Fuck!”

She opened her eyes and acknowledged that Debbie and Carl were still where she left them, standing in the middle of the kitchen looking slightly concerned. But now, Debbie’s face had turned to anger and she turned to direct it towards Lip.

“God, Lip! Why do you always have to mess everything up?”

“Excuse me?” Lip was leaning with one hand against the counter, the other holding a still-wrapped popsicle to his jaw.

“You push people just to push them! For your own amusement, I guess! What, you get a kick out of seeing people squirm? Setting them off?”

“Hey, Debs!” he said defensively, but Debbie wasn’t finished.

“No! Mickey did nothing wrong! He was doing his best to just get through the night! You think he wanted to be here any more than you wanted him here? God, you’re such a dick!”

She ground her teeth together and ran up the stairs. Carl lingered for a moment, looking at Lip like he wanted to say something, but made a wordless retreat instead.

Fiona turned from the stairs to Lip, eyebrows raised, already tired of all this bullshit but ready for a fight nonetheless.

Honestly, she was so fucking done. Fiona wanted nothing more than to walk away from her shithead brother in front of her. She wanted to forget about Mickey Milkovich. She wanted to ignore the fact that there was food on the table that wasn’t going to put itself away and a toddler upstairs who would want a bedtime story soon and about six piles of dirty laundry that had been lying there for far too long and another brother somewhere who wasn’t okay, wasn’t going to be okay. She really, really just wanted to crawl into bed and close her eyes indefinitely, maybe for a week or two, and not worry about a goddamn thing.

But there had been plenty of times in the past when she had wanted to give up – when she was six, when she was nine, a few significant times when she was eleven, that one huge blowout when she was fourteen, that time she almost walked out the door when she was seventeen, more than once at the age of twenty, a couple days ago when Debbie had cussed her out, and probably almost every day in between – but she always held it together. As best she could, at least. She was well aware of her fuck ups, especially the more recent ones, but she never, _never,_ gave up on her family.

And as much as she would like to, now was no exception.

“What the hell was that, Lip?”

“I told you, guy’s a prick.”

“What the hell did he do? Chew the wrong way? You started in on him before he even had the chance to piss you off.”

“Okay, fine, all of you can take Our Lord and Savior Mickey’s side. I’ll be upstairs nursing my broken fucking jaw.” He moved toward the stairs but Fiona stepped to the side, blocking his path.

“No, no, you do not get to run and hide. You’re going to give me an explanation. Now.”

Lip scoffed and turned to walk through the living room, Fiona hot on his heels.

“What? You jealous? That Mickey gets to take care of him instead of us? You wish Mickey was fucking this up so Ian would have no choice but to come crawling back to us? Is that what you want for him?”

“Jesus, no, Fiona!” Lip stopped short of the staircase in the living room and turned around to face his sister. “I just don’t get why you have so much blind faith in the guy!”

“It’s not blind, he’s doing a great-“

“It’s been a couple months! A couple months that he’s stuck around and played the loving and doting boyfriend! That doesn’t mean shit! And yet you, and Debbie, and hell even Carl act likes he hung the fucking moon! You guys all think that he’s always gonna be there!”

“Sorry that we’re the slightest bit hopeful that just one of the fucked up situations in our lives is actually gonna turn out okay! My bad for being just a tad optimistic. Ya know, maybe we don’t have a good enough reason to believe that Mickey’s gonna stick it out, but you don’t have any more reason to believe that he won’t.”

“Our whole fucking lives is reason enough! Jesus Christ, Fi, you seriously don’t get it. After everything we’ve been through, how can you not have learned not to fucking trust people like this? Not to get your hopes up at all? Being raised the way we were, with Frank and Monica, we’ve been let down enough times to know that-“

“I know,” Fiona cut him off. Of course she remembered being seven-going-on-eight and believing Monica’s promise that she would take her out for her birthday. Monica had told her to plan the day, absolutely anything she wanted, and they would do it, just the two of them. Fiona had thought about it every night while she laid in bed for weeks leading up to her birthday. She decided on getting manicures and eating pizza and ice cream and riding in a horse-drawn carriage and shopping for hours on Michigan Avenue even if they couldn’t afford to buy much, just walking and looking and trying on tons of clothes and maybe finding the perfect doll and getting matching dresses that she and Monica would wear together.

That birthday was special for Fiona; Monica and Frank had been too high to even remember it. Usually she at least got a song sang to her, whether it was over a cake or just the McDonalds that they were having for dinner, and maybe a couple presents that were clearly last minute but still, they were there. But that birthday was spent consoling a crying Lip who just wanted his mommy, and imagining the fun and laughs that she and Monica were supposed to have that day.

They all had memories like that, but this was different. The whole Mickey thing, it felt different to Fiona. And maybe she was being hopeful or naïve but she’d be damned if she let Lip tell her how to think.

“I get it,” she said to him. “But Mickey’s not Frank or Monica.”

“You think I don’t know that? I know everything he’s done for Ian. I’ve known about the two of them a lot longer than you, I know that he’s probably loved him for longer than he’d admit. But I also know a lot of shit that he did to hurt Ian despite that. I know a lot of shitty things about him that you don’t.”

“People change.” Fiona surprised even herself with those words, and at this point she wasn’t even sure if she was arguing because she truly believed it or just because she didn’t want Lip to be right.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Lip took a step closer to her and Fiona was tempted to step back but stood her ground. “What kind of fucking fairytale are you living in? You do that many drugs that your brain is that fried?”

Fiona chuckled, wiping at her nose before putting her hands on her hips. She looked away from Lip and shook her head. “That was a low blow.”

“Well saying things like that makes me seriously concerned about your mental state.”

Fiona looked down at the floor and smirked, letting the anger build up inside her before looking back up at Lip. “Fuck you. I don’t know what the hell your problem is but if you’re going to be this much of an asshole then you’re not needed here.” She turned to walk back into the kitchen, but the next sentence that came from Lip’s mouth made her turn right back around.

“Right, okay, I’ll just stop bringing food around and paying the electric bill and watching Liam while you get your shit sorted. I’m sure Mickey can do all that, too, right?”

“Yes, Lip, you’ve been helpful while I’ve been spiraling. I know that. But Mickey’s been helpful while Ian’s been spiraling. And yes, I think he’s gonna stick around. And if the kids think that, too, why the hell would I want to change their minds?”

“To save them from getting hurt! You want the truth Fiona? I cannot just stand here and watch as all of you just fucking let go and let God, just because you think Mickey will always be there. I won’t be able to handle seeing what it does to you if he gives up. That’s the truth. It would be hard enough to watch Ian go through that, but we’d handle it. But now every single one of you would be fucking heartbroken by Mickey. Fucking. Milkovich!”

“So that’s what this about? You were fine with Mickey as long as none of us expected too much?”

“Look, he’ll walk away and all of you will be crushed, and I’ll be the last man standing left to clean up the fucking mess. I can already see that that’s how this is gonna play out. I guess the problem is that for some reason you can’t see that.”

“No, Lip, I think the problem is that we can see that he loves Ian, but you can’t.”

Lip laughed. “Maybe he loves him, but that doesn’t mean shit, Fi! Love is not some magical fucking fairy dust that makes everything okay. He could love him today and leave him tomorrow.”

Fiona looked at him incredulously. She smiled as the pools that had formed just under her eyes began streaming down her cheeks. “Jesus, who hurt you?” her voice was softer now, like the conversation had become too much. “Mom and Dad fucked you up so bad that you don’t believe in love? Or was it Karen? I know we had a shitty life, Lip, but I thought I gave you enough to keep your head up. I tried so goddamn hard to give you guys enough love. Enough to make up for the fact that we had shitty parents. I know I’m not gonna win any awards but, I thought I did okay.” Her mouth clenched together in a frown as she shook her head and shrugged, throwing her hands out in defeat. “Guess I was wrong.”

“Christ, Fiona. Don’t be so fucking dramatic. When’s the last time love benefited you? Huh? ‘Cause I know whenever Monica told me she loved me I waited around for her to prove it and she always, always, let me down. Same with Frank, although he didn’t give out those words as freely. And yeah, since you decided to throw it in my face, I did love Karen. And our baby, when I thought it was mine. And let’s be honest, that whole thing royally fucked me over so thank you for helping me prove my point here. Love doesn’t mean shit.” He said the last sentence slowly, like he was trying to explain something that Fiona was too stupid to understand.

“Well I’m sorry ya feel that way. But I don’t. So I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree her.” She let the malice in her voice speak for itself and gave him one last glare before walking past him to go up the stairs.

It was clear that Lip desperately wanted to throw another ‘stop being so goddamn dramatic’ into the conversation but he instead took a breath to calm himself. “Fi-“

She couldn’t take another minute of this depressing conversation that seemed to just keep going in circles. She stopped halfway up the stairs to say her final piece and put the nail in the coffin. “Just- don’t worry about it. If Mickey breaks our hearts, no one’s askin’ you to clean up the pieces.”

She continued up the stairs, leaving Lip to rip his fucking hair out at how stupid his family could be.

 

* * *

 

“Debs.” Fiona knocked, noting the locked door. “Can we talk?”

Her question was met with silence, but after a few moments she heard movement and Debbie swung open her door.

“What?”

“Can I come in?”

“I’m not sorry.”

“I’m not askin’ you to be. You shouldn’t be.”

This response satisfied Debbie enough and alleviated some of the anger that she thought she would be needing. She stepped aside so Fiona could make her way into the room, closing the door behind her and taking a seat next to Fiona on the bed.

“Lip was outta line.”

“Ya think?”

“He just doesn’t want to see any of us get hurt.” She didn’t mention that that was literally the one redeeming sentence she could take away from their shouting match downstairs.

“Well he’s got a funny way of showing it. Mickey wasn’t hurting anyone.”

“I know.”

“And you’re not much better, inviting him over just to ambush him about Ian. Ever think that since his whole life revolves around Ian these days, maybe it’d be nice to spend two seconds not talking about him? You made it look like we only give a crap about him for his Ian reports.”

“Shit.” Friona sighed, realization hitting her like a ton of bricks. “When did you get so wise? How’d I miss that? Was it during my stint in the cling or when I was high off my ass?”

Debbie tried to hide her smile. “Please, I’ve always been the wise one in this family.”

Fiona wanted to draw this moment out, a moment in which Debbie wasn’t ignoring her or telling her how much she hated her or screaming in her face about how Fiona ‘doesn’t understand.’ This felt good, for the first time in a while; felt like old times. But her million other responsibilities were calling her name so she just hugged Debbie tightly, like the tighter she squeezed the more Debbie would trust her. Like if the hug was good enough then things would just go back to the way they were.

“Well, we didn’t make it to dessert,” Fiona said when she finally released Debbie from her loving death grip. “Think you could make a special delivery over there? Maybe some leftovers too? He’d probably appreciate seeing a face he actually likes when he opens his door.”

“I’m not apologizing for you guys.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll do that myself once he has time to cool down. An angry Milkovich is not something I have the energy for right now. C’mon, I’ll pack up some food.”

Debbie joined Fiona in the kitchen and they silently put the leftovers into Tupperware containers, their tired minds racing with thoughts of Mickey and Ian and missed birthdays and disappointments.

 

* * *

 

“I did nothing. You have no reason to shut the door in my face.”

Mickey reopened the door, not because she was right but because she had put her hand on the door frame and he wasn’t about to break a little girl’s fingers. The last thing he needed was to give the Gallaghers another reason to bitch him out.

But also, she was kind of right.

“My reason is that it’s my house. My fucking door. I’ll shut it in whoever’s face I want.”

“C’mon. I come bearing gifts,” she said, lifting up the plastic grocery bag in her hand.

Mickey bit his lip before opening the door enough for her to get inside. She walked past him and stopped in the living room, letting her eyes wander like she was looking for someone.

“Ian’ll be home in an hour or so.”

“I didn’t come to see Ian.” She walked further into the house and stopped looking around, realizing her scanning for Ian probably made it look like she only came there to see her brother.

“No? Figured they sent you to make sure I wasn’t banning you guys from seeing him.”

“I came here because Fiona made a shitload of food and I didn’t see a need for it to go to waste because of Lip’s big stupid mouth.”

“Go to waste? In your house? You really think I’m gonna believe that one? There’s like eighty mouths to feed under that roof at any given time.”

“True. But despite the fact that my cunt of a sister invited you over to talk about Ian, she did actually make the food for you, so,” she hoisted the bag up on top of the kitchen table, “ya might as well have some.”

Mickey bit the side of his lower lip and avoided Debbie’s eyes. “Well, thanks.”

“And I came here because I actually give a shit about you.”

Mickey’s eyebrows furrowed and his eyes finally shot to meet Debbie’s. “’Scuse me?”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” she said, grabbing the container of cookies out of the bag and plopping herself down on the couch. A Gallagher not making a big deal out of something? Yeah, she was definitely Mickey’s favorite.

“Xbox One?” Debbie said, motioning towards the console under the TV.

“Yeah, Iggy stole it last month. You play?”

“Matty had one. What games ya got?”

Mickey considered telling her to get the fuck out. He thought about going into Mickey-mode and telling her to go home and play with her fucking dolls by herself. He'd tell her that no one invited her over and her presence certainly wasn't wanted. But for some reason that even he wasn't sure of, he instead went over to a shelf and rummaged around, pulling out Call of Duty from behind a bunch of useless shit. “Been hiding this, wasn’t sure if Ian-“ his words drifted off, not quite knowing how to finish that sentence but knowing he didn’t need to.

“We’ve got time before he gets home, right? Probably enough time for me to embarrass your manhood.”

“Oh, we’ve resorted to trash-talking, huh? Alright, bring it on, Pippi Longstocking.”

They sat there on the couch together eating cookies and playing video games and Mickey considered the fact that, other than Ian, Debbie might be the closest thing to a friend he’s ever had. He also realized that that was really fucking sad. But as he sat there and got his ass kicked he was just grateful to have anyone at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Find me on tumblr: backstreet-gurl.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

When Ian goes back to normal (“normal”), it isn’t sudden. Mickey doesn’t just wake up one day and realize that Ian has slowed from 160 mph to down to a smooth 55. In fact, the day Mickey does notice that Ian is a little less buzzing than usual he has to stop himself and reconsider the previous days. Ian still went for a run every morning, but a little later. If he didn’t get home from work until 3:00 then he wouldn’t wake up before 7:00. It didn’t even phase Mickey, not at first, and now, upon realizing it, that really pissed him off. He should have noticed the second that something was different. His body should be programmed that way. Ian does this, this, and this every day; sound a fucking alarm if any of that changes, dipshit. But now, now that he saw a visible change in his energy, all the pieces were coming back together. He hadn’t done that laugh lately; the laugh that made Mickey’s skin crawl because it wasn’t Ian’s laugh, and the sound wasn’t being made at something that Ian would have found funny. Not before. And Mickey could only remember seeing him scribble furiously into that stupid fucking notebook once in the past week.

Mickey’s fingers started to tingle and he could feel his hands shaking. He balled them into fists and willed the anxiety to leave his body. This wasn’t something to get excited about. He watched from the darkness of the kitchen as Ian sat on the couch, entranced by the TV. His face was soft. He looked like a kid. It reminded Mickey of how he’d looked those first few times they’d met to fuck in the back of the Kash n’ Grab.

That face was what made Mickey pause. It made him consider that something might be different but what, what, _what_ was it? It wasn’t until Ian chuckled softly at something on the TV, smirking with one side of his mouth but his face still remaining soft and relaxed. It wasn’t until then that Mickey had thought to reflect on the past few days, on Ian’s behavior the past week or so. That’s when he unearthed the gradual fall that he had somehow been so ignorant of.

Now he stood there, nails digging into his palms, heat rushing to his face and suddenly there was a burning in his eyes that he swallowed down. Of course this was something to get excited about. But he couldn’t, _he fucking could not._ Because maybe he was imagining it, or maybe he had just missed Ian writing in his notebook or maybe Ian wasn’t really sleeping as much as he thought. Or, worse yet, maybe he was. And maybe he’d continue to do so. Until he was sleeping 20 hours of the day and quietly weeping for the other four. Maybe he had been falling all week, and maybe he was going to keep falling, further and further down.

Ian turned his head and squinted into the darkness of the kitchen. Once his eyes adjusted he noticed Mickey standing there, staring at him. Staring like Ian had just collapsed and died right there and his body was slowly rotting away.

“Mick, what the fuck?”

Mickey snapped out of his trance, eyes leaving Ian but the grim look remaining on his face.

One of Ian’s eyebrows shot up and he looked at Mickey like he was insane. “Thought you were making popcorn?”

“Yeah. I was. Just waiting for it.”

“I think it’s done.” Yeah. Yeah, the microwave had probably wailed its beeps five minutes ago while Mickey was busy standing there like a paranoid idiot too busing freaking the fuck out to notice. He couldn’t help but think again of the nonexistent alarm that had failed to alert him to the fact that Ian was different. But sure, it’ll tell ya when the goddamn popcorn’s done. Fucking fuck.

“What’s wrong?”

Shit, how long had he been standing there? Mickey’s eyes wandered away from Ian again but for some reason his feet were glued to the floor.

“Mick?” Ian stood up slowly from the couch, getting a better look at Mickey before making his way over to him.

“Hey,” he stopped about a foot in front of Mickey and looked caringly into his eyes, searching for an explanation for the man’s odd behavior. Mickey’s odd behavior, for once. That was a laugh.

Ian reached out to put his hand lightly on Mickey’s bicep. The touch reminded Mickey of how Ian used to be, and now he knew he was making this shit up in his head because that was a load of crap. Ian had touched him gently like that before, months ago, years ago, even, but he also did it plenty of times since he’d come back. Plenty of times since he’d been manic or whatever the fuck you call it, whatever the fuck this was. So yeah, Mickey’s head was deliberately fucking with him, forcing him to get his hopes up for no goddamn reason.

Ian furrowed his brow and gave a small, cautious smile to Mickey. “You okay?”

Jesus, no. Haven’t been okay since I met you. Wasn’t okay before that, either. Definitely, _definitely_ not okay now. “Yeah.”

“Yeah? Then why have you been creepily standing in the dark for the last ten minutes looking like someone just told you your dog died?”

Mickey willed his feet to move, fucking _move_ , and forced himself to pull it together. He shrugged Ian’s hand off his arm and walked over to the microwave. “Fuck off, man. I was waiting for the popcorn and I zoned out. You want some or not?” He pulled the bag out of the microwave and poured the contents into a bowl.

His hands were still shaking.

“Dude, I am not sharing,” Ian said, grabbing for the bowl.

Mickey moved it swiftly behind his back. “Excuse me? Who got up to make the popcorn that _you_ begged for?”

“Yeah, exactly, I wanted it and you whined about making it. Not to mention-“ Ian tried to swipe the bowl from behind Mickey’s back but Mickey turned, spilling a few kernels onto the floor. “-I wanted it ten minutes ago, and now you let it get cold while you were on your little trip to mars.”

Mickey rolled his eyes shot him what could only be described as a ‘ha ha fuck you’ look. “You’re sharing this popcorn or we’re watching _Gangs of New York_. End of story.”

“We’re in the middle of a movie!”

“Yeah, a movie you picked! Fair’s fair, Gallagher. What’s it gonna be?”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Fuck you. If you shovel handfuls in at a time like you usually do, you’re getting up to make me another bag. End of story,” he said mockingly.

Mickey took the bowl out from behind his back and they made their way back into the living room.

“Yeah, okay, _I’m_ the one who eats it all. You lick the fucking bowl, jackass. It’s disgusting.”

Ian laughed again and shoved Mickey. “Sure, me licking a bowl is disgusting but me licking your asshole is just fine.”

Mickey couldn’t help but grin widely at that. “You’re a fucking dick.” He shoved him back, Ian using the force to fall heavily back onto the couch.

As Ian continued to laugh at his own joke, the hope and fear continued to rise in Mickey’s chest. He took a handful of popcorn just to show that he was okay, just to keep up the façade.  The nervous warmth that had spread in his stomach had left him less than hungry. Mickey wasn’t sure if it was his head messing with him or not, but Ian’s laugh seemed so Ian, so _old_ Ian, that it hurt.

Mickey sat down next to him on the couch, thighs touching, shoulders touching, Ian’s forearm resting overtop of Mickey’s. The casual contact made his brain scream. He didn’t want this to end. He didn’t want Ian to continue to fall until he couldn’t get out of bed, and he didn’t want him to get up and start racing around the room, cleaning or jotting down ideas or going for a run. Mickey felt like a child, wishing this moment would never end. Silently asking for it to last forever.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that: said silent prayers, if that’s what you could call them. He didn’t know if he really believed in a god; didn’t ever give it enough thought. But when he was little he could remember asking for things in his head while he laid in bed at night. Once in a while he asked for stupid shit, like _Please, please, let me go to a Sox game. Maybe Dad can get us tickets or Tony could sneak us in or something? Please?_ , but most of the time he remembered asking for stuff when he had no idea what else he could do about it. When he was scared shitless.

 _Please let tomorrow be a good day for Dad,_ he remembered asking one night after his father had beaten Mickey’s face to a bloody pulp because Mickey had dropped the jug of milk and watched in shock as the entire gallon poured onto the floor. His mom hadn’t come home that night, probably shot up in some crack house and passed out there. So Mickey had cleaned up the milk and then tried to clean up his own face, but the cuts kept bleeding and he was swollen everywhere and he couldn’t reach the band-aids and they didn’t have anything in the freezer that he could hold to his wounds. _Please don’t let me fuck up again tomorrow, please let Dad forgive me and make him happy,_ he begged as he cried as silently as he could into his pillow. The crying made his face hurt more and he was sure his nose was bleeding again but he couldn’t stop. He wasn’t sure why, because it was just one of the countless times that his dad had kicked his ass, but it was one of Mickey’s most vivid memories. He could still remember exactly what it felt like trying to breathe through his broken nose as he sobbed. He remembered being afraid that he might not be able to catch his breath; might just cry himself to death. Mickey couldn’t have been more than 7 then.

He remembered plenty of other nights asking for similar things. Or sometimes, as he laid in bed listening to the sobs of a scared little girl, _Please make Mandy feel better. Please make her stop crying. You can take away all my baseball cards if you need to._ Or, of course, there were the classic nights of _Please let Mommy and Daddy be normal tomorrow,_ just as simple as that, because half the time all Mickey wanted was for his parents to not be strung out or high as fuck or drunk off their asses.

The memories made Mickey feel sick. He was embarrassed by his naivety, believing that his stupid polite little prayers would work, and he was ashamed that that naivety had come creeping back into him now, despite how hard he tried to push it from his mind. He couldn’t help but foolishly believe that Ian was getting better.

He had eventually stopped praying when he was little because it had never worked; the few times that he escaped a beating were chalked up to coincidence and Mickey decided when he was about nine or so that no one was there, no one could help him. Anything he’d want taken care of he would have to do himself, and anything that he couldn’t handle he’d just have to deal with; take the punches, clean up the blood, listen to Mandy cry.

He didn’t know why he was praying now, but he had no idea what the fuck else he could do. He had promised the Gallaghers he would take care of Ian. He had promised Ian he’d never let anything happen to him. And he promised himself he’d do whatever he could.

But there was nothing he could do. Nothing but his pathetic little prayers to a god he didn’t believe in.

Mickey held the bowl of popcorn with one hand and shoved the other hand underneath his thigh, willing the shaking to cease.

 

* * *

 

 After another week had gone by with no further changes in Ian’s behavior, Mickey finally let himself be excited. He woke up that morning to find the sun streaming in and Ian still in bed with him, curled tightly around Mickey and snoring softly in Mickey’s ear.

“Hey. Ian,” Mickey whispered, because he needed to make sure, one more time, that Ian was okay. Before he actually accepted the fact that his Ian was back, he just had to check that he was still there.

“Ian.” He turned to face him, putting his hand gently on Ian’s face and rubbing his thumb back and forth across his cheek.

Ian didn’t open his eyes but acknowledged Mickey with a “Hm?”

Mickey could feel the nervousness creeping in. He leaned in and kissed Ian, one, two, three times, drawing the last one out a bit longer.

Ian’s eyes stayed shut but he smiled tiredly and leaned in for one more kiss. Ian didn’t see it, but Mickey smiled back.

“What time is it?” Ian yawned.

“Eight-thirty. You got in at, what, 3:30?” Ian nodded and rolled onto his back.

“A’right, go back to sleep, princess.”

Ian’s eyes finally opened, blinking a few times and squinting as he looked at Mickey. “Why’d you wake me up just to tell me to go back to sleep?”

A smile tugged at Mickey’s lips again. “Just missed you.”

Ian’s eyes opened a little wider, adjusted to the brightness of the room. He stared at Mickey for a second like he couldn’t believe what he just said before remembering that he was now living a life that actually consisted of Mickey occasionally sharing his feelings. The thought made Ian’s head spin in the best possible way.

“Awwwww,” he said, poking fun at Mickey’s confession, but neither of them were blind to the genuine nature of the moment. Ian’s heart still soared any time Mickey expressed his feelings considering not so long ago he had been dead set against doing so. Or rather, scared to death of doing so. But Mickey had since stopped feeling embarrassed saying stupid shit like that in front of Ian. Maybe Ian needed to hear it.

Mickey rolled his eyes and got out of bed. “Shut up, faggot. I’m gonna take a shower. Go back to sleep.”

Ian laughed tiredly before turning over to face the window and covering his face with the blanket to shield him from the sun. Mickey watched him for another moment, letting a temporary happiness spread throughout his body, before making his way into the bathroom.

As soon as Mickey was under the screaming hot shower, the tears that had been caught in his eyes for the last God-knows-how-long started to pour down his face. He smiled as he sobbed and he felt like a fucking idiot but he couldn’t stop. Relief washed over him and hit him like a fucking train. He felt like something was crushing his chest as he fought to get enough air between the sobs that were racking his body. He put his hands and his forehead against the wall of the shower and let himself cry.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there before he heard the bathroom door open. His sobs had since ceased and he had just been standing under the water trying to get his breathing back under control. In, out. In, out. Ian’s okay. In, out.

“Hey fuckhead, ya mind hurrying the fuck up? Other people need to use the shower.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck off.” He was amazed at how normal his voice sounded when he answered his sister, no evidence of a mental breakdown in his words.

He heard the water running in the sink and peeked out from behind the shower curtain to see Mandy brushing her teeth.

“Hey, Ian still in bed?”

Mandy turned around to face him. Her toothbrush stopped moving at the sight.

“Jesus, what’s wrong with you?”

If there was no trace of his breakdown in his voice, Mickey could only imagine what his face was giving away. His eyes felt swollen and he could still feel the snot dripping just above his lip. He sniffled and wiped at it with his wrist.

“I think… he’s doin’ good,” he said, eyes fixed on the floor. “I think he’s been doin’ pretty damn good. Don’t you?”

Mickey looked up, waiting for Mandy’s response. Realization swept over her face and he could have sworn she was giving him a look of pity.

“Yeah. I think he is.” They stared at each other in silence for a moment, toothpaste dripping out of Mandy’s mouth. “Hurry up, okay? I gotta leave for work in twenty.”

Mickey went back to showering and Mandy went back to brushing her teeth, and if anyone ever asked Mandy most definitely did not spend an extra long time on her dental care that morning so that Mickey wouldn’t have to be alone.

 

* * *

 

When Ian and Mickey burst through the door of the Gallagher house they were greeted by the sight of an empty living room.

“Jesus, of course. This house is never fucking empty but the second you actually want someone to be home, they’re all fucking gone.”

Just then, to Mickey’s relief, Fiona came down the stairs, Liam following behind her.

“Hey!” she greeted them, stopping on the last step and putting her hands on her hips. “I thought I heard someone come in. You guys just dropping by or are you gonna hang out?”

“Got some time to kill,” Mickey answered nonchalantly. “Figured we’d see what you guys are up to. See if you have anything good to eat.”

This was the first time the two had actually seen each other since the dinner fiasco. It wasn’t that Mickey was intentionally avoiding her, he just hadn’t had any reason to drop by recently. She had texted him the day after the dinner. _Sorry about Lip. And me. Shouldn’t have badgered you about Ian like that._ It had taken all Mickey had to suck up his pride and reply _its fine,_ but something came over him (he figured it hadn’t been easy for Fiona to apologize either so he might as well try a little harder) and he typed out another message and sent it quickly before changing his mind. _Shouldn’t have started a fight in your house. Won’t happen again._ When Fiona sent back _you’re still welcome here any time_ he didn’t respond.

“I don’t have anything made yet but I could whip something up, I’m off work tonight. Got time to stick around?”

Mickey shrugged, which was his too-cool way of saying yes. Ian smiled at the gesture and answered for them.

“We have zero plans for the day so we’d love to stay and eat. Don’t let him fool you. Mickey’s the one who insisted we come see you guys.  I think he missed you.”

Fiona looked from Ian to Mickey quizzically and Mickey tried his best to send her a look that said everything he wanted to say. _He’s okay, he’s good, do you see this? Do you see how good he is? Tell me he’s gonna stay like this._

Fiona furrowed her brow at the look, not quite sure of the message but sure that Mickey was trying to send one.

“Carl, Debbie! Ian and Mickey are here!” she yelled up the stairs, and Mickey would be lying if he said he didn’t pay special attention to the fact that she included his name in her call.

Debbie came barreling down the stairs just moments later. She greeted Ian with a hug and smiled at Mickey, motioning for them to join her on the couch.

Mickey watched as Fiona walked into the kitchen. It appeared that she and Mickey had the same idea.

“You want anything to drink?” he asked Ian.

“No I’m good,” Ian answered without looking back at Mickey. He had taken a seat on the couch next to Debbie and was pulling Liam onto his lap, eliciting a giggle from the little boy.

“Kay. I’ma grab a beer.”

Mickey followed Fiona’s path into the kitchen, noticing how she tucked herself into the corner by the fridge. He walked over to her and put his back to the sink, leaning against the counter. One of Fiona’s hands was on her hip while her other forearm rested on the counter, fingers tapping quietly but anxiously on the countertop.

Mickey stared at the wall across from him, not sure he could tell her this while looking at her but also wanting so fucking badly to look her in the eye as he told her her little brother was okay. He needed to see her reaction, not the one that she was going to spoon-feed to him, but the one that happened as soon as the words went from Mickey’s mouth to Fiona’s ears.

Her fingers kept tapping, a little more quickly now, and Mickey knew she wanted to tell him to fucking spit it out. But she didn’t. She held back. Because she was trying. She and Mickey had had their differences, but she was trying.

This room would never stop reminding him of the smell of blood and betadine. Agonizing pain. Ian standing over him with a lamp while his eighty year old fuck buddy dug a bullet out of Mickey’s ass. Kids screaming, Mickey wishing they would shut the fuck up, then joining them with screams of his own. Ian’s concerned face, which Mickey had found both cute and annoying, but barely had time to notice it because he was too damn busy trying not to fucking pass out. Molly, the last time he’d seen her before her cracked out mom showed up to take her back (she was probably lucky, Mickey often thought; she had to be better than Terry).  That stupid bitch from Child Protective Services barging in, and Mickey blinking through the pain as he watched the Gallaghers’ worlds fall apart. Again.

That’s what Mickey thought about as he worked up the courage to have this conversation with Fiona. This conversation that could go one of two ways and he had a feeling in his gut that it was going to go the way he didn’t want it to.

Of course it would, who the fuck was he kidding?

Mickey took in a deep, shaky breath. Not wanting to make Fiona have to restrain herself any longer, he forced himself to turn his head and look her in the eye.

“Notice anything different about him?” he nodded towards the living room.

Fiona turned her head to glance over her shoulder, despite the fact that all she could see was the fridge and the wall, like looking in that direction might bring about some awareness.

Mickey spared her the guessing game. “It took me a while to catch on but, Fiona-“ he said, begging her to look at him. He couldn’t do this if she wasn’t looking at him. Her name felt strange coming off of his tongue. He didn’t say it often, and he certainly never actually said it to her. Never to get her attention. He never wanted her attention. But now, he needed it. Demanded it.

She looked back into his eyes, fear etched into her face. She was used to receiving bad news. She was always ready for it. But that never made it any easier. Mickey just wanted the fear to leave her face.

“I think he’s better.” The words fell out of his mouth quickly, and he felt a blush creep onto his cheeks as soon as they’d hit the floor. He hadn’t planned on saying it like that; he hadn’t planned on sounding so childish. And naïve. That damn naivety again. Milkoviches were not naïve.

“I noticed last week that he hadn’t seemed… manic,” (Mickey felt like a phony using that word because he hardly even knew what it meant, only knew that that’s what the Gallaghers had called it when Monica would act that way), “for a while. I wanted to wait to say anything to you guys in case I didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about. Figured there was no point in getting your hopes up in case I was wrong.”

Fiona couldn’t help but laugh to herself at the irony of that. Lip hated Mickey because he got everyone’s hopes up, and here Mickey was confessing that he had been trying to avoid doing just that. These kids were gonna be the death of her.

“But I don’t think I was wrong. It’s been over two weeks and he’s been… normal. He’s been just like the old Ian, like before he left.”

Fiona could feel the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t sure if it was because she was so excited to hear that Ian was acting more like himself, or because the boy standing in front of her seemed younger and more innocent than she’d ever seen him.

Mickey took in the look on her face, the same look that Mandy had given him that morning: pity. Fiona was quick to hide it but he had seen it and it scared him, made him defensive. He looked away from her and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

Both. Definitely both, Fiona decided on. She was ecstatic to have a non-manic, non-depressed Ian back. She couldn’t wait to spend the day with him. She wanted nothing more than to go give him a hug and savor every moment she could.

But right now, she had to deal with the boy in front of her who had just moments ago let his guard down for a split second and was now in the process of quickly rebuilding a wall between Fiona and himself. Between himself and the rest of the world.

Fiona smiled widely. “That’s so great! Mickey, that’s fantastic.” Spoon. Fed. She watched him as he continued to burn a hole in the wall with his eyes, unblinking, and she wondered if a tear might escape if he did.

She knew what he was silently asking; what he believed, hoped, no matter how hopeless he seemed. Fiona had been exactly where Mickey was several times with no one to tell her any different. Every time Monica had seemed better, Fiona had hoped she would stay that way forever. She hoped and hoped until she had been through it enough times to learn for herself that it would never last.

“Hey.” Her fingertips touched his arm, just barely, just enough to get his attention. He froze at the touch but she left her fingers there until he looked at her. “That _is great_ , Mickey. It is.” _But I need you to know. I don’t know how to tell you. I don’t want to. God, believe me, I don’t want to. But I need to._ “We should take advantage of it. Enjoy it.”

They both filled in the rest of the words in their heads.

_Because no one knows how long it will last. No one knows anything except not forever._

Mickey bit his lip and looked away again. “Maybe it wasn’t what your mom’s got. Maybe he was just- just messed up for a little bit and he’s better now.” He couldn’t believe he was vocalizing his sad fantasies to Fiona but here he was, practically pouring his soul out right onto their kitchen floor. Might as well. His blood had been all of this kitchen not so long ago; why not throw around bits of his soul and watch it drip from where it lands?

Fiona didn’t know a whole lot about Mickey, but she’d been learning. She had learned from the first time they’d talked about Ian’s condition, when he was a dead weight in Mickey’s bed and Mickey was crying right in front of her, insisting that he could handle this. Fiona had learned how to talk to him. How to keep him calm, or at least how to not upset him any further.

“I wish that were true. And I know I’m not a doctor so my diagnosis doesn’t really mean shit, but-“ she crossed her arms in front of her chest and took her time searching for the best words possible to keep Mickey from tottering off the edge. “It’s good to be optimistic, but we also gotta be realistic. Ian showed all the symptoms. We’ve seen it enough to recognize it. I don’t think there’s much of a chance that this was something else.”

“Yeah, well what the fuck do you know?” Mickey put as much bite into the words as he could but he knew they fell flat. Fiona was right and he was pissed at her for being right because he had no one else to be pissed at. She was the easiest target, and that was okay with her.

They stood there in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes and listening to Debbie, Ian, and Liam laugh as they played Hungry Hungry Hippos. They stood there until the laughs died down and the games had ended and Fiona was sure they couldn’t get away with hiding away in here much longer.

“One day at a time, right?” she said, taking note of the defeat in his eyes, his face, his entire body.

His teeth dug harder into his lower lip, the skin below turning white. His hands squeezed the edge of the counter behind him. He couldn’t look at her again.

Fiona sighed and turned to walk back into the living room, not sure what more she could do to fix a broken Milkovich.

Mickey stayed where he was, anchored to the counter behind him. He shouldn’t be this upset. He knew, he fucking _knew_ he was being irrational. He knew it wouldn’t last. Optimism never fucking helped anyone.

He heard Debbie yell something about Apples to Apples and he couldn’t bring himself to walk into that room with all the smiles and laughter and hope and hidden emotions that were just under the surface of all of them, just scratching at their skin waiting for the dams to break. He was making his way up the stairs to see how long he could hide out in the bathroom when he noticed Carl sitting at the top of the landing. Tear tracks snaked their way down his face.

Mickey froze at the sight. He bit his lip and rubbed at his chin, considering what the hell to do with the boy. He’d never talked to Carl much, never knew much about him. The first time Ian had been depressed and Mickey had brought the three younger kids over to show them their damaged brother lying in his Mickey’s bed, Carl hadn’t said a word the entire time. The walk over had been fairly quiet in general other than a few words exchanged between Debbie and Liam. When they got there, Debbie had tried to talk to Ian, tried to get him out of bed or get a few words out of him. Carl hung back, watching, swallowing hard as Debbie told Mickey that they’d seen something like this before. With their mom, she’d said, but they should ask Lip to be sure. Mickey walked them home that night and Carl lagged behind them as they walked, solemn and withdrawn.

Mickey hadn’t heard much more out of the kid since then so he only knew what Ian had told him. Ian loved talking about his family, manic or not. Carl was extremely loyal, maybe even the most caring Gallagher of them all though you’d never know it if you weren’t paying close attention. He had tried to find Frank a liver. He hated school and was in trouble all the time but he wasn’t stupid. ‘Kinda like you,’ Ian had said when he told Mickey that, and Mickey hadn’t been sure if it was a compliment or an insult or just a throwaway comment that he was looking far too deeply into.

None of that really helped him with his current situation, though. Carl looked up at him expectantly, like there was something Mickey could do or say to take away everything he’d heard. That was a fucking joke. Mickey hadn’t had a good track record for fixing things lately, and his losing streak wasn’t going to end now.

“You wanna go downstairs?”

Carl looked away and shook his head, sniffling.

“We probably should.”

Carl still didn’t answer, just stared at the wall to his right. Waiting for Mickey to make it better.

“I don’t really want to either.” This made Carl look at Mickey again, expectations written all over his face.

The fuck could they do then? Mickey thought about offering to toke with him, assuming it wouldn’t be too hard to find a joint somewhere in the house. Carl had to be at least, like, ten, so surely he’d smoked before. But still, he wanted to stay on Fiona’s good side as much as he could so getting her little brother high might not be the best plan.

“You wanna go shoot some stuff?” The idea came to him suddenly. It was what Mickey often did when he had nowhere else to go.

“Yeah.”

Carl stood up and let Mickey lead the way down the stairs and through the crowd of people who weren’t going to let them walk out the door without an explanation.

“Where do you think you two are going?” Fiona asked, looking up from her spot on the floor.

“Pick up some pizzas,” Mickey replied. “No reason you should have to cook for us.”

Fiona gave him a questioning look but didn’t push further or point out the obvious holes in his story, just nodded and reached in her pocket, pulling out a few bills and tossing them to Mickey.

“Get some extra, we’re having an impromptu party tonight. Kev and V are coming over, Lip and his girlfriend might come. And stop and ask Kev if he needs you to pick up booze! Tell him we’ve only got a couple fifths here.”

Mickey nodded and ushered Carl out the door, looking back briefly to acknowledge Debbie’s curious glare. “We won’t be gone long,” Mickey said to no one but her.

 

* * *

 

He took Carl to his favorite abandoned building. He thought about going somewhere else, thought it might remind him too much of Ian and all the shit in their lives, but Ian was going to be plaguing his mind anyways so he didn’t see the point in avoiding the location.

 (They had stopped at Mickey’s house on the way to grab a gun and some ammo, and Carl had waited outside. Mickey wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t want to see anyone else or because the dreary house made him think of Ian lying in bed and looking too much like their mother.)

He and Carl took turns firing the gun. Mickey watched as Carl tried to channel all of his emotions into his index finger, hoping they’d be released as he pulled the trigger.

Mickey had always said he pictured fucking towelheads when he shot at the target because the truth made him feel so ashamed. Made him feel like the coward that he knew he was. Mickey pictured a faceless man. Deep down he thought the man was probably supposed to be his father, but he didn’t have the courage to admit it. He couldn’t picture his dad’s face when he pulled the trigger. He could never do it. What a fucking pussy.

Mickey wondered who Carl was picturing. Maybe it was Mickey.

 

* * *

 

 They returned to the Gallagher house an hour later just as the sun was beginning to set and the party appeared to be in full swing. V shouted a greeting and grabbed the pizzas out of his hands, eager to take a slice. Ian made his way across the room quickly, bringing Mickey in for a kiss.

“Where were you?” he asked, smiling like the answer wasn’t going to be a big deal. Like he had no idea of the magnitude of anything that had gone one earlier with Mickey and Fiona and Carl. Of course he didn’t know any of that, but it still made Mickey’s head pound to see Ian acting so casual when Mickey’s world was crumbling.

“Carl wanted to shoot my gun.” No point in lying. He hated lying to Ian.

Ian’s face lit up. “So you took him shooting?”

Mickey shrugged. “Why not?”

“Aww, you’re so sweet. Big Bad Mickey can’t say no to a thirteen year old.

Mickey rolled his eyes. “I need a drink.”

Ian grabbed Mickey's sleeve, stopping him as he tried to make his way over to the assortment of booze.

"Hey, seriously." Ian got up close to Mickey again, closer, so close their faces were almost touching. "Thanks for taking him. You didn't have to do that. And I know you probably didn't want to. So thank you."

Mickey wanted to tell him that yeah actually he did have to do that because it's not like he could just walk past a crying kid on the stairs and hide out in the fucking bathroom by himself. But to Ian it just looked like Mickey was making an effort to bond with the rest of the Gallaghers for Ian's sake, so instead he just kissed him, a quick, soft peck, and shrugged it off.

"It wasn't a big deal. Kid should know how to shoot anyway. Now seriously, I need a drink."

 

* * *

 

 The party wasn’t half bad despite the fact that about half the attendees were children (until V’s mom showed up and took the twins and Liam, but not before having a couple drinks herself). There was no coke, probably because of the whole Liam thing, but there was plenty of weed to go around and even more alcohol. Mickey found himself doing shot after shot of cheap vodka that gave him fucking heartburn. Lip did show up, but he didn’t try to get into it with Mickey. Didn’t even glare at him, which was a big step up for their relationship. Or maybe a step down because now he wasn’t acknowledging Mickey at all. Either way, Mickey was just thankful for the break.

Fiona had given Debbie and Carl permission to have a couple drinks each since it was a Saturday and neither of them were going to stop begging until she caved. Despite her own intoxicated state she was still pretty good about keeping tabs on them and ensuring that they stuck to the two drink rule, but even after the two Debbie was clearly tipsy and Mickey caught Carl taking sips from everyone else’s cups  when they weren’t looking.

Debbie, as it turned out, was a touchy-feely drunk which did not surprise Mickey in the slightest. He was well past countable drinks by the time she got to him so he let her tuck herself into his side on the couch as the party roared on around them. The music was loud enough to dull Mickey’s thoughts (or was that the alcohol’s doing?) and he was content sitting on the couch with Debbie watching the rest of them dance around like carefree idiots. He watched Ian take Lip’s girlfriend’s hand and spin her around, dipping her and then waltzing around the room. The sight made Mickey smile. Kev danced while smoking what was definitely not his first joint of the night and V grinded against him, throwing her head back in laughter every few seconds. Fiona danced around Lip who also moved slightly to the beat, and she cackled when he started doing stupid dances like the sprinkler and some other things that Mickey had no fucking idea what they were supposed to be.

Eventually Debbie fell asleep on Mickey’s shoulder and Mickey asked Kev to hand him a bottle so he didn’t have to get up and wake her. It wasn’t until he heard Fiona shrieking in laughter, something about ‘it’s all gone!’ that Mickey had realized he’d downed the whole bottle. He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the couch as the room began to spin faster and faster.

 

The next thing Mickey knew, he was waking up to the strong smell of vomit. Mickey gagged instantly and was relieved to find that his head was already in the toilet. He heaved violently into what he assumed was already a bowl full of his own vomit and wondered how the fuck he ended up falling asleep with his head in the toilet.

He must’ve been retching pretty fucking loudly because soon he felt a hand on his back. He opened his eyes to see Ian, of course, all sleepy-eyed and caring.

“Jeez. I thought the last time would be the last time. There can’t be anything left; how much pizza did you eat?”

The thought of pizza made Mickey’s stomach lurch. He groaned and yep, Ian was right, there was nothing left in him. He dry heaved as Ian rubbed his back.

Mickey put his arm on the toilet seat and rested his head on it, not sure if that was the last of it. He stayed like that quietly for a few minutes and Ian thought he had fallen asleep again until spoke up.

“Fuck, man. Remind me to never party it up Gallagher-style again.”

Ian laughed. “That wasn’t even close to a real Gallagher-style party. I’m a little embarrassed for you right now, Milkovich.”

Mickey lifted a hand to flip Ian off and pushed himself off the toilet, moving until his back was against the wall.

“You think you’re done blowing chunks? My back is killing me from sleeping on this floor.”

“No one asked you stay in here man, I can puke all by myself just fine.”

“You’re welcome. Come on, let’s go to bed.”

Mickey groaned in protest but he let Ian help him up off the floor. The room spun and Mickey stumbled, but Ian was there to catch him. He leaned into Ian’s side as they walked to his bedroom. Ian sat him gently on the bed, pulled of his jeans, and curled up next to him, running his fingers lightly over Mickey’s chest as he let sleep drop a curtain on the spinning room.

As Mickey sat just on the cusp of sleep, he thought about all the times he had helped Ian to and from the bathroom. The times when he had rubbed his back while they laid in bed because he didn’t know what else he could do. He couldn’t deny that the reversal of roles was a welcome change of pace, but there was the ever-present thought nagging at the back of his mind that it wouldn’t be long before he’d have to do this for Ian again, and not because he had drank too much. Fiona was right. It wasn’t a fluke occurrence. Mickey knew that. Nothing in his life could be explained away that easily. Nothing.

One day at a time, she had said to him.

_Please just give us tomorrow. Please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news! I've outlined the next 4 chapters of this, which means updates should be coming more quickly. Also, when I outlined this chapter a lot more was supposed to go in it but it ended up being so long up to this point that I decided to just cut it here and make the rest of it it's own chapter. So that one should be coming very very soon. Yay!
> 
> Find me on tumblr: backstreet-gurl.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

It was Carl who was with him when Mandy left.

They had been planning on going shooting again, just swinging by Mickey’s to grab some ammo. It had become a kind of regular thing with them. Carl would ask, and Mickey never had the heart to say no. Not that he wanted to say no very often. It was nice hanging out with Carl, just shooting shit and not feeling inclined to pour their hearts out. Spending time with someone and having no pressure to talk about anything was refreshing and Mickey welcomed it.

So Mickey was glad that if anyone had to be there for this it was Carl, because with Carl he didn’t have to talk about it.

They had walked into the house, Mickey leading the way to his room with Carl following behind. The sight of Mandy throwing all her shit into duffle bags, however, made Mickey stop. He lingered in the doorway watching her, waiting for an explanation.

Mandy noticed his presence and gave him a small smile. “Hey, asshole. I put a lot of thought into planning the perfect escape when no one would be home.”

“Where the fuck you goin’?” He didn’t return the smile.

“Does it matter?” Why was everyone in his life so fucking dramatic?

“You’re packin’ up all your shit so yeah, I’d say it fucking matters.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Mandy-“

“Let it go, Mick.”

“Wha- are you leavin’ town?”

“Look, it’s probably better if you don’t know. Nothing for Kenyatta to try and beat out of you.”

“You’re leaving because of that prick? Mandy, you know all you have to do is say the word and he’ll be taken care of.” Despite the person Terry had raised him to be, Mickey wasn’t all that keen on the idea of killing someone. Kicking the shit out of people? Sure. Beating them to a bloody pulp? Absolutely. Cold-blooded murder? Mickey was hesitant to admit that he drew the line somewhere. But if Mandy asked, he would take care of it.

“No, Mick, it’s not- it’s not him. Don’t get me wrong, getting away from him will be a perk but- I just can’t be here anymore, y’know? I hate this house, I hate this shit neighborhood, I’ve got a boyfriend who likes to use me as a punching bag. If I can leave,” she shrugged nonchalantly. “Why shouldn’t I? What’s stopping me?”

“Where the fuck did this come from? You just all of a sudden decided you couldn’t live here anymore?”

Mandy gave him a look that answered his question for him. “I decided that when I was ten,” she said anyway. And Mickey knew what she meant. He hated this house, too. He hated the memories tied to it and he hated the hold that the place seemed to have on him. He hated that he felt trapped in it and he hated that as long as he lived there he’d be held down by his dad. But he had accepted all that a long time ago. He knew there was no escaping. What the hell made Mandy think otherwise?

“Mandy-“

“Look, don’t make this a thing, okay? It’s not a big deal. I’ll call.” She brushed past him quickly and slammed the door behind her.

It seemed so sudden. One second they were living in the same house just as they had their whole lives and the next she was out the door. But maybe Mandy was right. Maybe it wasn’t sudden. Maybe she had been hinting at it for a while. Maybe it had been obvious. Mickey was so wrapped up in his other shit that he had been neglecting his sister, letting her go unnoticed.

Shit, maybe she had been planning her escape all along. Maybe she had invited him. Mickey didn’t know any more.

“You gonna stop her?”

Mickey jumped at the sound of Carl’s voice; he’d forgotten he was even there. He held back the angry tears threatening to surface. “No.”

“Why not?” _Goddammit, Carl. You’re not supposed to be the talker._

“She wants to go, I can’t fucking stop her. Whatever.” Mickey turned to walk into his bedroom, remembering why they were there in the first place. Carl followed.

 “You coulda told her you didn’t want her to go.”

“The fucks it matter what I want?” Mickey said as he grabbed some bullets out of his drawer. “Maybe she’s right, maybe she should leave. Who the fuck knows?”

Carl didn’t say anything in response and Mickey was grateful that he seemed to have dropped the conversation. That is, until about five minutes later on their walk to their usual shooting range. They hadn’t spoken another word to each other until Carl said, quietly but firmly, like he had been building up the courage to say it, “I wouldn’t have let Debbie leave.”

“Good. Don’t,” Mickey replied. Carl, who had clearly been expecting something more along the lines of ‘no one asked you, keep your fucking mouth shut,’ looked at Mickey in surprise as Mickey continued to stare at the nothing in front of him.

 

For the first time, Mickey was brave enough to picture his father’s face as the target.

 

* * *

 

When Fiona showed up at the Milkovich front door the next day Svetlana let her in without so much as a mumbled ‘hello.’

“Hey! Felon is here,” Svetlana shouted to the seemingly empty house. Fiona shot her an offended look which Svetlana ignored, dumping a fussing baby into Fiona’s arms.

“You give baby bottle? I’m late for work.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows at the fact that the woman who had just insulted her two seconds ago was now demanding her help. “You sure you want your kid in the arms of a felon?”

Svetlana took the bottle out of the microwave and thrust it into Fiona’s free hand. “There so many of you, I cannot keep track of names.”

“Maybe you should learn the names of the people you throw your kid at?” Fiona yelled as Svetlana made her way out the door.

“Mickey?” she shouted into the quiet house. She wandered over to his bedroom and nudged the door open with her shoulder. Mickey was asleep, lying flat on his stomach with his mouth slightly ajar. Fiona took a moment to just look at him, to observe a side of him she never get to see. Admittedly, it wasn’t as telling as she’d expected. She thought he would look different in his sleep; like how people’s faces relax completely and all their worries leave their minds if only for a few blissful hours. But Mickey’s face looked as Mickey as ever, far too worn and troubled for such a young kid. Maybe that’s what this life did to you. Maybe Fiona didn’t look peaceful when she slept either.

“Hey!” she shouted loud enough to wake him. Mickey stirred, wiping at his eyes and squinting one open to get a look at his intruder. “You wanna be a little more concerned about strangers bargin’ in here and kidnapping your baby?”

Mickey blinked a few more times and sat up, rubbing his eyes as he got out of the bed. “No one would want that fucking scream machine,” he said as he brushed past Fiona. She followed him into the kitchen and sat down at the table, still feeding Yev his bottle.

“Jesus, you go on a bender? You smell like a bottle of tequila.”

“What do you want?” Mickey asked, ignoring her question.

 “You talk to him yet?”

He avoided her gaze, grabbing the milk out of the fridge. “Who?”

“Don’t gimme ‘who,’ dubass. Ian. You talk to him about seeing a doctor?”

“No.”

“No?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Mickey-“

“He’s fine.”

Fiona sighed. She’d fought this battle already. If her life was going to be a constant struggle she’d at least like some new material once in a while. “We’ve been over this. He’s fine for now but who knows how long it’ll last.”

“So when he’s sick again I’ll talk to him about it.” Mickey turned his back to her as he got out a bowl and some cereal. Maybe it was just Fiona’s imagination, but she could swear he was purposefully taking an ungodly amount of time in order to avoid looking at her.

“It might be too late then.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” She could practically hear the eye rolling and the _God, you people are so fucking dramatic_.

“I just- this is the best time to talk to him about it.” She was truly at a loss on how else approach this topic with Mickey. She had no idea how to handle her own kids half the time let alone this one that she had somehow let slip into her life. She cared about Mickey, she really did, but she had no idea how to handle him. Sure, she had picked up on what _not_ to do, but that didn’t leave her much closer to figuring out how to get through to him.

She used to know the key to getting through to each of the kids. Lip required reason and bargaining. Ian could be bought with a good guilt trip. Debbie needed praise, being told how great she was or what a big help she was being. Carl could often be persuaded with a “For me? Please?” but in tougher times it took a $20 or an extra late bedtime.

But that was before. Now they were all growing up, changing too fast for Fiona to keep up with, so fast it was making her head spin. She was spinning and falling and landing completely disoriented in a world where nothing was what she thought. She didn’t know how to get through to her siblings anymore, didn’t really have a clue how to handle them, and now she could just add Mickey to the list of things she was at a complete fucking loss on.

“Well, I ain’t doin’ it.” Mickey took a bite of his cereal, still facing the fucking wall, now making it all too obvious that he was definitely avoiding her.

Fiona cared about Mickey, but she cared about Ian a hell of a lot more. “Either you talk to him about it or I will. I was asking you first as a courtesy.”

“I don’t need your fucking courtesy.”

“Hey.” He still didn’t look at her. Fiona sat the bottle down on the table and walked over to Mickey. She grabbed his arm with her baby-free hand, her face stern. “ _Hey_. I gave you time to pout and be pissed at me, but times up.”

Mickey sat his cereal down and finally turned to face her. “Why the fuck would I want to bring it up when he’s doin’ good, huh? Don’t you think that plan has a huge chance of backfiring? Yeah, brilliant idea, doc.”

“So, what, the next time he’s holed up in your bedroom refusing to get out of bed you’re gonna tell him you think he needs to see a doctor? You think that’ll go over well? Put him in a shopping cart and push him to the clinic? That your plan?”

“Fuck you.”

“He’s sick, Mickey. Even if it doesn’t look like it right now.” Déjà vu, déjà vu, déjà vu. Wasn’t there supposed to be 5 steps of denial? Or something like that? Something that ended in acceptance? Because Mickey sure as hell wasn’t cycling through any fucking steps; he was firmly planted in denial.

“I gotta go to work.”

“You think I’m gonna hang around here and watch your fucking kid?”

Mickey looked around like he was realizing for the first time that it was kind of strange that Fiona was holding Yev instead of his wife. “Where the fuck’s Svetlana?”

“Work. Apparently.” She held Yev out for Mickey, waiting for him to take the baby but instead watching in amazement as he picked up his cereal bowl instead.

“Put him in the crib. I got shit to do.”

She pulled Yev back against her chest. “He’s not done eating.”

“Yeah, well, neither am I.”

Fiona laughed in disbelief. She grabbed the bowl out of Mickey’s hands and slammed it on the counter, cereal and milk sloshing to the floor. She shoved the baby into his arms, ignoring his angry ‘what the fuck’ as she forced the bottle into his hand.

“Feed your goddamn kid.”

As she turned to leave she tried her damndest to bite her tongue. She sure as hell didn’t need Mickey to be any more pissed off at her than he already was and considering she had not so long ago let her baby brother ingest cocaine she probably wasn’t one to talk. But she couldn’t help it. She’d offer her two cents if it were Lip or Ian acting the part of shitty father, so Mickey would have to hear it, too.

“I know it’s none of my business, but- Jesus, Mickey. Give your kid better than what you had. That’s all we can do.”

Mickey’s face contorted in anger but Fiona could swear she saw hurt there, too. Then again, anger and hurt were pretty permanent fixtures on Mickey’s face these days so who could be sure when it was something significant? Nonetheless, his expression made her feel a twinge of regret.

“You’re right,” he spat. “It’s none of your fucking business.”

Fiona walked out the door and tried to convince herself that she hadn’t just taken a huge step backwards.

 

* * *

 

Mickey couldn't remember the first time he had been told to fend for himself. In his earliest memories he was still too short to see over the counter, trying to find something to eat. Usually he could scrounge up a box of stale crackers or Cap'n Crunch or a can of soup that he would eat cold; whatever was low enough on the shelf. He couldn't recall ever telling Terry he was hungry; he just remembered always knowing better. But he had to assume that there was an event, far out of reach in his memory, that had made it that way. He imagined it went something like a two year old Mickey saying, "Daddy, I'm hungry" and Terry responding with something like, "then find something to eat, I'm not your goddamn slave." Terry was firm in his beliefs that if a kid could talk, it could do anything. Mickey remembered Mandy wetting her bed when she was three and Terry telling her if she was old enough to cry about it then she was old enough to clean it up herself.

(Mickey had thrown her sheets in the wash and let her sleep with him. Terry slapped him across the face for being such a pussy and swatted Mandy’s ass for not doing it herself.)  
  
He could remember telling his mom he was hungry. He recalled walking over to her limp body on the couch, shaking her shoulder, "Moooom, I'm hungryyyy," her eyes doing a slow blink in a non-response to Mickey's plea.  
  
He learned quickly to stop asking her most of the time, too. Because if she wasn't high off her ass then she was annoyed that she wasn't high off her ass. The only two sides of his mother he knew.

Once in a while she would throw a slice of cheese between two pieces of bread and call it dinner. On rare occasions, probably when she had just scored a great deal on smack, she make something special like a grilled cheese or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Sometimes when their older brothers were over they would cook noodles and if they were lucky they’d throw some sauce on it. Every so often when Terry cooked for himself there would be enough to go around. Whether that was out of courtesy or coincidence Mickey couldn’t say.

But most of the time, Mickey and Mandy were left to fend for themselves.

Now that Mickey thought about it, he kind of had no fucking idea how he and Mandy had even survived. He didn’t have any memories of either of his parents holding his sister as they fed her a bottle. He knew it must have happened, but he couldn’t fucking picture it.  Sometimes Mickey thought maybe he had repressed the good memories of his childhood. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Shouldn’t he be repressing the memories of being beaten and broken and scared? No, that’s not how his fucking life worked. Those memories were crystal clear and yet somehow he didn’t have a single happy one to latch onto.

He knew he must be fucking crazy. He and Mandy hadn’t starved when they were kids. There were times when there wasn’t enough to eat but they had always gotten by, never looked fucking emaciated or had to lick crumbs off the goddamn floor. He knew his parents must have fed them and changed their diapers and bathed them (once in a while) and somehow kept them alive until they were able to do it on their own. But as hard as Mickey scratched and clawed at the walls in his head he couldn’t for the life of him remember. He couldn’t imagine his parents being parents, save for the occasional PB & J that was the result of druggie euphoria.

He put the bottle in Yev’s mouth and stared as the baby sucked it down.

 

* * *

 

On her trip home from the Milkovich’s Fiona passed her house and headed straight to V’s.

“Ugh, I need a drink.” She plopped herself down at the table and watched as V finished changing one of the twin’s diapers.

“What’s the problem this time? Some hot piece of ass wants to take you out but he’s got three kids, a drug problem, and commitment issues?”

“I wish. Mickey’s bein’ bullheaded about talking Ian into seeing a doctor and I have no clue what to do about it.”

“Damn, them Gallagher problems are always a bitch,” V said as she sat a sippy cup down in front of Fiona and poured Vodka into it. Fiona looked from the cup back up to V. “I haven’t done the dishes in three weeks, this is all we’ve got that’s even halfway clean.”

Fiona grabbed the cup and took a swig. “Cute drug addict who wants to fuck me would be a much simpler issue. I just got back from the always wonderful Milkovich house where Mickey pretty much told me he wouldn’t say a word about it to Ian ‘cause he doesn’t want Ian to get pissed at him.”

“He’s scared shitless.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows in surprise. Normally she was the one having to convince people that Mickey was a decent human being. Having someone else defend him to her was an entirely new experience. “Oh come on, V. Now is not the time to side with the precious little lovestruck teenage thug. It’s not cute. It’s problematic. He’s being stubborn.”

V grabbed a beer out of the fridge for herself and sat down across from Fiona. “Fi, you know that I am the last person to defend Mickey Milkovich but neither of you are thinking straight so let me spell it out for you. That boy has fuck all going for him and you’re trying to convince him to poke the bear, the bear which happens to be the only decent thing in his life.”

“Well, the bear needs help.”

“Yeah, and that conversation goes one of two ways: Ian’s totally open to the idea of getting help and remains his happy cheerful self, or he’s in denial and gets pissed at his boyfriend for pushing him to do something he doesn’t wanna do. Guess which one Mickey’s imagining? And I gotta say my money’s on the same one.” The last sentence was cautiously muttered as she brought her beer up to her lips.

“Jesus, do you want me to call Mickey up? Maybe he can take you out for a drink?”

“Hey, I’m just being the voice of reason here. You’re in protective big sis mode and he’s in protective boyfriend mode. I’m the Dalai Lama.”

“So you’re saying don’t talk to Ian?”

V stood up and grabbed one of the twins who had started wailing. “Fuck no, of course you should talk to him. Someone should talk to him. But you’re gonna want Mickey on your side and you’re not gonna get him there by telling him he’s wrong.”

Fiona pursed her lips, succumbing to V’s argument. “Maybe you’re right. I’m just sick of being the bearer of bad news. Can’t I just enter a drug induced coma again and hope everything turns out for the best?”

“Can I join you?” V asked as she tried to unlatch the baby’s firm grasp on her hair. “Babies can practically raise themselves these days, right?”

 

* * *

 

“He’s being selfish. You get that, right? Please tell me you’re not too fucking blind to notice that.”

Déjà vu, déjà vu, déjà vu. “Lip, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Fine, well, since apparently I’m the only person in this family who cares more about Ian than Mickey, I’m gonna talk to him.”

Fiona had just finished giving Lip an edited version of her chat with Mickey that morning. As expected, Lip wasn’t thrilled to hear that Mickey was still refusing to acknowledge the fact that Ian needed help.

Honestly, Fiona was this close to tell Lip to go for it. _Go talk to Ian, forget about Mickey, hell, forget about me for the next week or so, alright?_ She was dying for a break. She had been dying for a break for the last fifteen years. In truth, Fiona was genuinely amazed by her own ability to keep going. She felt like she’d been tottering on the edge of giving up for as long as she could remember, and yet she knew she’d never do it. She’d had setbacks, yeah, but she never gave up. She never said fuck it and threw in the towel. And somehow she knew she never would.

It was an exhausting way to live.

“Just wait, okay? You and I both know it’ll be better coming from Mickey. Let me talk to him again, I’ll try to-“

Her words were interrupted by the back door being thrown open. An angry Ian stormed into the kitchen, his ROTC bag on slung over his shoulder.

“Hey, man,” Lip greeted casually. “What’s up with the body bag?”

Ian slammed the door behind him. “Movin’ back in.”

“What?” Fiona asked, not attempting to hide her surprise. She threw a worried glance at Lip before turning her attention back to Ian.

Ian paused as he approached the stairs. “That cool?” His tone was cold, demanding a ‘yes’ and then begging not to be bothered.

“Of course, but what happened? Everything okay with Mickey?”

“Don’t really wanna talk about it.” He ran quickly up the stairs, his feet landing heavily with every step.

As exhausted as she was, Fiona went into mom-mode instantly, just as she always did. She was already formulating the plan in her head: ask Lip his thoughts, send Lip upstairs to play the brotherly best friend and get as much info out of Ian as he could while she called Mickey to find out what the hell happened, then go upstairs herself and comfort Ian until he asked for space.

But she didn’t have a chance to get a word out.  Just as a door upstairs slammed the back door opened again, this time revealing an annoyed Mickey.

“He here?”

“Yeah, just ran upstairs without a word. What the hell happened?”

Mickey’s jaw clenched as he stared her dead in the eyes. “Your stupid talk happened.”

Fiona opened her mouth to ask for more details but the return of the heavy footsteps upstairs stopped her. Ian stomped down, halting before the last stair. He threw a glare at Mickey and if looks could kill Fiona was sure Mickey would be six feet under.

“Jesus, of course you’re here.” Ian’s voice was full of things that Fiona had never heard him direct at Mickey. Malice, annoyance, genuine anger. Hurt.

“’Scuse me?” Anger. Hurt.

“Can you leave me alone for two fucking seconds? Or do you want me on suicide watch, too?”

“I never said that- Fuck, Ian, just- just fucking calm down and come home and we can talk about it.”

Ian folded his arms in front of his chest as he shook his head, his eyes boring holes into the floor. “I heard everything I needed to hear.”

“Jesus Christ.” Mickey rolled his eyes, more in frustration now than annoyance. Fiona knew that eye roll well. The kind you do when someone just won’t listen. Refuses to understand. She’d used that eye roll more times than she could count.

 “Couples spat?” Lip chimed in.

“Mickey thinks I’m a burden.”

“I never fucking said that. Stop putting words in my mouth.” Hurt. Annoyance. Frustration. Hurt.

“I’m sorry, Mickey thinks I’m crazy.” Offense. Anger.

Mickey kept his mouth shut, biting on his upper lip in an attempt to control his rage.

“Ian,” Fiona said gently. “We’re just worried about you. No one thinks you’re crazy. We just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

Ian laughed and Fiona’s gentle expression fell off her face, leaving hurt and frustration in its place. There was too much of that going around. “Why’s everyone worried about me? Why do I need a shrink any more than the rest of us? I was depressed for a while. But it’s not something to freak out over. You went on a bender, maybe you need therapy. Mickey has a panic attack every other day,” he said, turning to face a reddening boyfriend. “Maybe you’re the one who needs to see a doctor, Mick.”

Fiona shot Mickey a look of concern but both her heart and her head were too occupied with Ian at the moment to put much thought into it. What scared her most was the way Ian spoke. Like he wholeheartedly believed everything he was saying. There was a lightness in his voice that shouldn’t be there, that wouldn’t be there if he was trying to hide the truth. He wasn’t even commenting on her recent fuck-ups in an attempt to make her angry or insult her; he sounded _nice_ when he said it, which made her even angrier. Like he was saying _come on Fi, we all got issues, we’ll all be okay._

_No we won’t, Ian._

For being so keen on initiating this conversation, Lip had had little to say thus far. He finally took a swing, using his best ‘super cool, super casual’ voice. “Come on, man, you know we don’t think you’re crazy. Just go see a doctor, they’ll prescribe you some shit and that’ll be it.”

That wouldn’t be it. Fiona knew it. Lip knew it. He was hoping Ian didn’t know it. But Fiona figured he did.

Ian stared at Lip. Betrayal. That was a new one. “I gotta go,” he said, making his way towards the front door. Mickey followed.

“Goddammit, Ian. What the hell are you doing?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t gimme that shit, where the fuck are you going?” Mickey grabbed Ian’s arm harshly and swung him around to face him. Ian shoved him hard and Mickey stumbled, almost losing his balance.

“Work.”

“You’re off tonight.”

“I’m popular there,” he replied, his voice hostile. Aiming to hurt. “They’re not gonna turn me away with the money I bring in.”

Mickey knew it was an exaggeration; Ian was well-liked there, yeah, but most of those old scumbags would get hard for anything under 30 with a dick. Not to mention it was a Tuesday so the club wouldn’t be in high demand for dancers. He’d probably end up wandering aimlessly around the whole fucking city just to prove his goddamn point.

He considered saying something to Ian’s back as he walked out the door, maybe ‘I’ll meet you there later’ or ‘at least call me in a couple fucking hours’ but he was too pissed off to show his concern. The last thing he wanted to do was give Ian the satisfaction.

So Ian left and Mickey stood in the Gallagher living room staring at the door. And suddenly, worst case scenarios started flooding into his mind. What if Ian went to the club and got high? What if he went home with one of those jerk offs? What if he got fucking roofied by those sons of bitches? What if Ian stayed at some asshole’s house and woke up tomorrow without the will to get out of bed? _Shit,_ what if the day Ian wakes up at a stranger’s house is the day he’s too depressed to function? Shit shit shit, he’d be alone and Mickey would have no fucking idea where he was and Ian probably wouldn’t even call him, he’d probably just stay in the guy’s bed until the prick got sick of him and threw him into the fucking street.

Mickey’s heart was racing, his mind reeling at the likeliness of it. Ian wouldn’t get out of bed tomorrow. Mickey was almost sure of it now. Nausea was creeping in and _fuck_ if this wasn’t the time to start freaking out.

“So,” he heard Fiona’s voice not far behind him, “new plan?”

He turned cautiously to face her, biting down hard on the corner of his lower lip to try to hide the fact that he wanted to gasp for air. He looked from Fiona’s concerned face to Lip’s stoic one, both staring at him like he had all the fucking answers.

“Mick?” Fiona began to notice Mickey’s anxiety and he couldn’t fucking handle this shit. He couldn’t handle being pitied. He couldn’t break down in front of them.

“Need a smoke.” He hurried past them both and out the back door.

 

* * *

 

A minute later, Lip walked out the back door to find Mickey standing at the bottom of the steps. His face was ghostly pale and there was a sheath of sweat covering his forehead despite the cool breeze. Lip stood on the porch for a moment debating whether to approach Mickey or give him his space. But Mickey had clearly heard the door open and hadn’t told Lip to fuck off yet so he supposed he’d take that as an invitation to stay.

“Debs used to get them a lot,” Lip said as he walked down the stairs.

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“Panic attacks.” He walked passed Mickey without making eye contact and sat down on a table on the side of the staircase. His back was to Mickey, or his side, really, giving him as much space as he could. “When she was younger. I didn’t even know kids that young could get them. It was usually when Frank or Monica left for an extended period of time. We couldn’t tell her when they were coming back because we had no fucking idea, and she just,” Lip shrugged as he stared off into the distance, “freaked out.”

Lip risked a quick glance over at Mickey. He was staring straight ahead of him with a blank expression but his eyes looked panicked. His breaths were quick and shallow, reminding him of Debbie’s attacks. He couldn’t remember much about what helped them, was actually pretty sure that nothing really did, they just waited them out. He figured talking couldn’t hurt, though, probably distracted the brain which could regulate breathing or some shit like that. So he talked.

“First time it happened Fi ran her to the clinic so fast… thought she was fucking dying. She couldn’t talk, could barely breathe, couldn’t move her fucking hands. I think I was… I don’t know, around Carl’s age maybe? I just remember being so fucking scared. Doctor just told her some stupid shit to do that was no fucking help, sent them home with a pamphlet about accepting when you’re having an attack and acknowledging your anxiety, I don’t know, it was total bullshit.

“Oh, uh, belly breathing,” he said, the memory suddenly popping into his head. “That was the only decent tip. Ya know, like, inhaling using your stomach instead of your chest muscles? I remember all of us, me and Fi and Ian and Carl, all sitting around when Debbie was crying that she couldn’t breathe, we all just started showing her how to do it, how to breathe with her belly. We must’ve looked like a bunch of fucking idiots.” Lip laughed, kicking at the dirt with his boot.

The memories were only funny on the surface. He remembered trying not to cry as Fiona took Debbie and he was left to watch Ian and Carl. He remembered staring out the window, counting the minutes until they got home. Two hours and forty seven minutes. He remembered that. He remembered Fiona walking in carrying a sleeping Debbie, laying her on the couch before going upstairs. Lip followed her and rambled off questions as Fiona changed her shirt that was covered in Debbie’s vomit. Fiona told Lip what she knew, which wasn’t much. Just that it wasn’t a big deal, Debbie was fine. She handed him the pamphlet and muttered something about the stupid fucking healthcare system and then went back to making dinner like she had been before the whole ordeal.

Lip had watched Debbie sleep all night that night.

He watched as Mickey took pulled a cigarette out of his pack, fumbling to light it.

“Can’t imagine smoking is a recommended treatment since lack of oxygen is kind of your brain’s biggest concern at the moment.”

“If I don’t smoke I’m gonna be puking all over your fucking shoes, that what you want?” Mickey fumbled some more, trying to get the damn thing lit but between his shaking hands and his labored breathing he was having less than stellar luck.

Lip grabbed the cigarette and put it between his own lips, lighting it and taking a drag before handing it back to Mickey.

Lip wouldn’t be charmed by Mickey like the rest of his siblings. No matter what Mickey did, no matter how much he let his guard down, no matter how much he cared about Ian, Lip wouldn’t let himself fall into that trap. And if he was being honest, that had nothing to do with Mickey and everything to do with himself.

Lip’s entire life felt like running in place. Even as a child he had known he wanted more. More than Fiona had, anyway. He knew he was smart, and he knew that could take him far. But he was also smart enough to know that he’d never be able to leave. He did well in school but nothing came of it. No one suggested he skip a grade because the work he was doing was tedious and boring, no teachers pushed him to thrive when they saw his glaringly obvious potential. Because they knew, too.

By the time he entered high school Lip had already developed the mentality that school didn’t matter. Not for his life, not for where he was headed. He passed his classes with ease regardless. Running, running, running but never moving. He made money setting up other people’s futures, writing their papers and taking their tests and letting them walk away with his opportunistic dreams that would never come to fruition. He just served them their futures on a silver fucking platter and used the money to pay the electric bill and the water bill and to buy frozen waffles and PopTarts. He wished he wasn’t smart enough to see the irony in that.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Run, run, stop if you want because you haven’t moved a fucking inch.

He could’ve gone somewhere; the door was open to go far far away to some pretentious school that would surely get him a degree worthy of a well-paying job. He could’ve jumped at the chance and never looked back.

He kicked that door shut and kept running in place.

Going to college at all was like one step forward for Lip. A single step advancement after a lifetime of running. And look how that had turned out. Fiona had crashed, Debbie got some twenty year old boyfriend, and he had lost Ian to Mickey.

Lip and Ian had been best friends their entire lives. Being born so close together, that friendship was basically engrained in them since birth and Lip knew he was lucky to have that. Someone who understood him completely and was always there for him and never had to ask any questions because their family problems were one in the same. They understood each other without a word, without even a look, just a feeling, just knowing the other so well that they could figure out each other’s thoughts faster than they could form their own. That was never supposed to change.

Ian was always Lip’s best friend and Lip had always been Ian’s. But now Ian had Mickey, who he wanted to spend every day with, wanted to fucking live with, and suddenly Lip had been pushed back to the number two spot.

Running in place for eighteen years and one step forward led to fucking catastrophes in every direction he turned.

What was funny now, as Lip watched Mickey try to steady his breathing and hide what his eyes were screaming, was that he felt guilty. He hadn’t felt it when he looked at Ian. Not even that first time when he had gone over to the Milkovich house to attempt to coax Ian out of bed. It didn’t feel like it was his fault. He didn’t blame himself. He blamed Monica mostly, and Mickey sometimes. Mickey had been the one to get married and break Ian’s heart. He had pushed him away, triggering the events that followed. Most of the time Lip couldn’t blame Mickey because he knew this would’ve happened eventually. If Ian was bipolar it would’ve come out at some point with or without Mickey’s unintentional pushes. But when he felt especially angry and irrational he blamed Mickey just a little, just for a second. But never himself.

Until now. Lip watched Mickey breakdown because he had tried so hard and failed. And Mickey was devastated. But Lip should’ve been in his place. Lip should’ve been the one to talk to Ian, should’ve been the one rejected and screamed at and hurt when Ian pushed him away. As stupid as it sounded, even in his own head, Lip was jealous of what Mickey was feeling. Mickey had failed; Lip hadn’t even tried.

Lip would never be charmed by Mickey Milkovich. Partly because he really wasn’t a charmable person, partly because he would always see Mickey as the neighborhood asshole, the kid who broke his lego tower ever fucking time in elementary school. And maybe partly because it felt like Ian had side-stepped his way out of Lip’s life and into Mickey’s without a second thought. But he might be able to stand behind him. Give him a nudge when he was falling over to put him back in an upright position. Exchange a silent, meaningful nod with him. He might be able to tolerate Mickey, accept that he loved Ian. He wouldn’t be charmed by him, but that wasn’t Mickey’s fault. That wasn’t specific to Mickey; Lip wouldn’t be charmed by anyone.

In his peripheral vision Lip saw that Mickey had calmed down significantly. He was lighting another cigarette, convinced to do it without Lip’s help this time. Not that Lip was going to offer. Maybe they should get along better than they do. They had a mutual understanding of personal boundaries, not necessarily because they shied away from human contact but because showing too much weakness could only possibly lead to hurt and failure. Vulnerability wasn’t an option. No matter how strong Fiona was, she remained an emotionally open book. Lip was smarter than that. He and Mickey, they didn’t show weakness or vulnerability. They cried, sure. They felt pain. They got angry. They expressed love. But they didn’t offer up their feelings. There was always something buried deeper than they would let on. If you saw a frown you were missing the hidden tears. If you saw tears you were missing the hidden agony. There was always something deeper. They would never expose themselves fully, never to the deepest level. They were eerily similar in that sense. So maybe they should get along better. Or maybe that’s why they never would.

Lip turned to walk back inside, satisfied with what this non-conversation had accomplished. A bit of the resentment he held for Mickey had faded. Ian was going to need all of them to stand behind him. And God knows it would be a lot more effective if they were all on the same team.

Lip reached the top of the steps, hesitating. He was surprised by the sudden urge to call a truce; to let Mickey know that they were okay, as okay as the two of them could be. He felt the need to lessen the burden on Mickey, just a little. He turned halfway, staring at the back of Mickey’s head.

“It’s not your fault.” He could see Mickey freeze up, his shoulders tense and his back straighten. He didn’t turn to face Lip, but his body showed he was listening intently. “I’m not saying what you did to him wasn’t fucked up. But this shit- it’s not on you.”

 

* * *

 

Lip opened the door and nearly hit Fiona smack in the face.

“Couldn’t resist?”

She smiled apologetically. “Thank you.”

“Wasn’t for you.”

Fiona grabbed his arm and pulled him into a tight hug. “Thank you,” she said again. _For being nice to Mickey. For being ready to handle Ian. For being there for me. For taking care of this family. For not letting me do this alone._ Lip heard every word.

“On the bright side it’ll all be okay eventually, right?” he said into her hair, still in a tight embrace. “I mean fifteen years from now Ian’ll have his meds worked out, him and Mickey will probably have adopted half of Africa, Debbie and Carl off on their own, Liam in college, I’ll be making six figures and you’ll be relaxing on a tropical beach somewhere with your childrearing days behind you.”

Fiona pulled away from him and kept a tight grip on his shoulders, looking at him incredulously. “Fifteen years? That’s when everything’s gonna be okay?”

“Time’ll fly. You’ll be a wrinkly forty year old soaking up the sun before you know it.”

She let his shoulders go with a gentle push, walking back over to the sink to resume the dishwashing she had been doing before Ian had arrived. “Yeah, the tropical beach of Lake Michigan, maybe. Ass.”

Lip smirked and walked over to the window, pulling back the curtain to look down at Mickey who was in the same place he’d left him.

“Think he’s gonna come back in or bolt?” Fiona asked as she scrubbed dried up egg off a frying pan.

“Nah, he’ll come in,” Lip found himself saying, and he had no idea why he felt so sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr! backstreet-gurl.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

Ian didn’t come home that night.

Mickey had stayed at the Gallagher house at Fiona’s request. He and Lip and Fiona had stayed up talking late into the night, waiting by their phones with baited breath, and Fiona suggested he just crash there. “That way if he calls you or somethin’ I’ll be right down the hall. Keep me from sittin’ up all night worryin’.”

Mickey figured it was probably more for his sake than hers, but he went along with it.

He slept in Ian’s bed and it felt weird, empty, of course it did. But he imagined his own bed would feel a hell of a lot worse. The small room was filled with the noise of Carl and Liam breathing and tossing and turning and it was a thousand times better than both alternatives at his own home: a screaming baby or screaming silence.

He’d never felt more restless. He laid still in Ian’s bed but his mind was racing, thinking about where the fuck Ian was and where the fuck Mandy was and how the fuck his life had turned to shit so quickly. It was never a fucking walk in the part but it had been fine before. Bearable. Now it was getting hard to move.

He woke up the next morning (or rather, he opened his eyes) when his phone went off. A text from Ian. _I’m fine._ Maybe it was in response to Mickey’s numerous messages last night such as _where the fuck r u, come home, at least let me know ur not fuckin dead,_ etc. Or maybe Ian had deleted all of those without reading them and sent Mickey two words to get him off his back. Probably the latter, not that it really fucking mattered.

Mickey glanced at the time. Almost seven. He had a funny feeling that Ian wasn’t just waking up; he probably hadn’t gone to bed. Probably went home with some old douchebag and got high and fucked him all night. The thought made Mickey’s head pound.

 

* * *

 

Fiona poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table, grabbing Debbie’s _Cosmo_ and flipping mindlessly through the pages.

Ian hadn’t come home. She hadn’t expected him to; he was stubborn. She had always admired that about him. Not stubborn in a childish, won’t-ever-give-in-even-when-he’s-wrong kind of way, but in a way that showed strength, a way that showed he’d stand by his decisions. She used to find it so endearing, so enviable. But maybe it wasn’t so admirable anymore; hell, maybe it never had been. She thought of Ian spending the night with a random guy or, worse yet, with Monica, and she thought of Mickey feigning sleep upstairs and she couldn’t find anything good in that.

But as her mind traveled back to memories of Ian before he left, she thought of how headstrong he was about the army. When he had first started showing interest in it she was torn. It made her nervous as hell because she had about a thousand things to worry about and adding a major one like ‘little brother going to war’ was not something she wanted to do. But it was so good for him to have something that he was passionate about. She never had anything like that. It was good for him to have goals beyond mundane day-to-day bullshit that her life revolved around. Her goals had never gotten any further than make sure there’s enough to eat this week, pay the bills, don’t let the kids get themselves locked up or seriously injured. For Ian to have more than that, well, that was huge. In a place like this, with the life they’d been given, that was everything. So she told him she was proud of him, told him he could do it if he set his mind to it. And he worked hard.

He was stubborn in the good way, if there was a good way. The kind of stubborn that would have made him a great officer.

She shook her head at the memories and let her eyes well up with tears before blinking them back, bringing herself back to the present. No point in dwelling on could-have-beens. She could waste the rest of her life dwelling on those if she let herself.

She heard footsteps upstairs and was soon greeted by the site of Mickey walking down.

“Morning,” she said as he entered the kitchen, rubbing sleepily at his eyes. “There’s coffee. Help yourself.”

He stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment looking like he was trying to decide whether he wanted to stay or bolt. He looked fucking exhausted. She was sure he hadn’t gotten a minute of sleep.

 “Nah, I’m good,” he said and for a moment Fiona thought he had been responding to her thoughts before remembering her offer of coffee. “Should get home. Svetlana’s gonna kick my ass for not helpin’ with the kid.”

Fiona contemplated whether it was an excuse to leave or not; she figured Svetlana was pretty used to Mickey not doing shit to help. But she wanted to think that Mickey would stick around if he could, so she chose to believe him.

“Okay, well let me know if you hear anything, alright?”

“He texted me. Said he was fine.”

“That’s it?”

Mickey sucked his lips in and nodded. “Couple minutes ago. I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.”

Fiona nodded and gave him a small, sympathetic smile. “Stop by for dinner if you want. Makin’ spaghetti.”

Mickey nodded a noncommittal acknowledgement before heading out the door. Fiona glanced down at the magazine and tried to read an article on the best hairstyle for your face shape but, unsurprisingly, her mind was elsewhere.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Mickey walked in the door he was bombarded by Svetlana screaming at him in Russian. He sighed and walked past her, not at all up for this fight.

“You are just going to ignore me?” she said as he grabbed a beer out of the fridge and sat down on the couch.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re saying, how the hell do you expect me to respond?”

“You ran out of house yesterday. Chasing after boyfriend like little pussy.”

“The fuck do you care?”

“I was going to work. Had to take baby with me. I give handjob with baby sucking on my nipple.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey said, annoyed. Jerking some old asshole off while breastfeeding the kid probably wasn’t the best situation in the world but Mickey didn’t see how that was his goddamn problem.

“I work all day and take care of baby all night, with no help from you.”

“Yeah, well, get used to it.”

Svetlana sneered. “I will call your father-“

“And tell him what, I won’t take care of my kid? You realize he pistol-whipped me and then forced me to fuck you, right? He’s not winning any father of the year awards so I doubt he’s expectin’ me to.”

“I told you you will help. Or else I-“

“Yeah, I know, you’ll stab me in the fucking heart. Psychopath.” He leaned back against the couch, bouncing his knee and avoiding Svetlana’s glare.

“And Orange Boy, too.”

“You see him around? Guess it doesn’t look like that’s gonna be a problem anymore, huh?”

“You get rid of him finally?”

Mickey simply raised his eyebrows to say _what’s it fucking look like?_

“Good. One less baby for you to take care of.”

“’Scuse me?” He looked up at her clenched his fists.

“You take care of you child. Let his family take care of him.”

“He is family.”

“More than this?” she asked, gesturing towards the baby in her arms.

Mickey rubbed at his temples. “I’m not gonna deal with this shit.” He stood up and made his way towards the door, done talking to her, done talking in general for a long fucking time.

“Fine. Leave. Don’t come home until you decide to be father to your child.”

“Look, it’s not my fault you even had the fucking kid, alright? Should’ve fucking aborted it.”

“Yevgeny is all I have. I left everything back home. I came here with nothing. And now I have baby. He is all I have.”

“Then you should be grateful you don’t have to share him. You’re fucking welcome.”

He slammed the door behind him for effect and walked quickly down the steps, not actually considering where he was going to go until he was already walking down the sidewalk.

He thought about going back to the Gallagher’s; they had heat and a decently comfortable bed and people he could stand to be around about fifty percent of the time. But they also cared. Too fucking much, if you asked him.

He headed to the alibi instead, drinking the day away until the last rub n’ tug customers cleared out. He threw a clean blanket on one of the mattresses and collapsed onto it, and finally fell into a much needed alcohol-induced sleep.

 

* * *

 

Ian didn’t come back that night, or the next night, or for the rest of the week.

He was smart enough to text Mickey once in a while, a quick _I’m fine_ or _stop worrying_ or _still breathing_ because they both knew if he didn’t Mickey would’ve sent out a search party to find his ass.

Mickey stayed at the rub n’ tug every night, spending his days either drinking at the Alibi and “providing security” or pickpocketing tourists on Michigan Avenue. It wasn’t the most fun way to spend his time or the biggest money maker – after five days of it he had four hundred bucks, Victoria’s Secret gift card, and claw marks down the length of his forearm that looked like they were from a wild animal but were actually the work of a teenage girl who’d caught him reaching into her purse – but it beat sitting at home.

 

* * *

 

When Ian had been gone too fucking long and Mickey seemed to be M.I.A. as well, Lip went looking.

It didn’t take long to track Mickey down; Lip’s second stop was the Alibi and Kev told him that Mickey had left about a while ago after drinking his weight in liquor. For a minute Lip was worried where the fuck he would look next – home and the Alibi had been number one and number two on his list of Two Places Mickey Would Go – but as he left the Alibi and walked further down the street his worries went out the window; he didn’t have to trek more than half a block before spotting a figure seated on the curb.

 “This your bed for the night?” Lip asked as he approached him.

Mickey turned to look at him but turned back around just as suddenly, bringing his hand up to his head like the sudden movement had made him dizzy. Lip sat down on the curb next to him and nudged his knee.

“Fiona and Debs are worried about you,” he said around the cigarette in his mouth.

“Should be worryin’ about Ian,” Mickey replied, bringing his beer bottle up to his lips.

“They’re a higher functioning species so they actually do have the ability to worry about more than one thing at a time.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and accepted the cigarette in Lip’s outstretched hand. “I’ve been textin’ Fiona.”

“Debbie tried to call you like twenty times, how can you ignore a little kid-“

“It’s surprisingly easy.”

Lip wanted to punch the smug look off his face but opted for a verbal attack instead; those were more his forte. “Yeah, I’m guessing you do this a lot, huh?”

Mickey exhaled, sending smoke out his nose. “What?” he groaned. Lip recognized that groan as his way of saying he was tired and cold and drunk and he didn’t need a lecture, but of course that wasn’t going to stop Lip from giving it to him.

“Treat other people like shit just because you’re feeling shitty. Even if it’s not their fault.”

“So I didn’t answer my phone, big fucking deal. She doesn’t have to fucking cry about it. I texted Fiona.”

“You forwarded her Ian’s texts.”

“Yeah?” Mickey took another drag and passed the cigarette back to Lip. Lip’s fingers peeking out of his gloves brushed Mickey’s bare hand and he realized it was fucking freezing. Mickey had been sitting out here for God knows how long letting his fingers turn into icicles. Fucking idiot.

“Not the same thing. They want to know if you’re okay.”

Mickey laughed and rolled his eyes.

Lip looked from the beer in Mickey’s hand to his bloodshot eyes. He felt sorry for him, he did. Mickey had been trying to help Ian and it resulted in Ian leaving him high and dry. But the world goes on. Lip couldn’t quite wrap his head around the fact that some people didn’t understand that. Some people let their lives stop because problems got thrown at them, and that annoyed the shit out of him.

“Look man, this wallowing in self-pity thing isn’t all that attractive.”

“Good thing I don’t give a fuck what you think.”

“So you’re just gonna drink your troubles away? ‘Cause we’ve both seen than end well for so many people.”

“I’m having a fucking beer, relax.”

“Yeah, and according to Kev you had about a fifth before you left the Alibi.”

Mickey poured the remainder of his beer down his throat and threw the bottle into the street. “There. Happy?”

“Oh, I’m downright giddy.” He paused, wondering why he had come here in the first place. “Why don’t you just go find him? I’m sure he’s still working at the club.”

“And what? Knock him out and drag him back? If he don’t wanna come home then fine by me, the fuck do I care?”

“Yeah, no I can clearly see that you don’t give a shit,” Lip said, his words dripping with sarcasm. If there was one thing Mickey Milkovich was not, it was subtle.

He figured since the conversation was going so well already he might as well bite the bullet and push things a little further. “While we’re at it, care to tell me why you’ve chosen to be homeless since he left?”

Mickey furrowed his brow and scowled at Lip. “Who told you that?”

“Your wife. She’s a peach. Wanted me to pass along a message but I think the language was too vulgar for me to repeat.” He smirked a little and hoped he would get one out of Mickey too, but his face remained stoic. “Where the fuck you been staying, Mickey?”

That actually got a laugh out of Mickey. “Stop acting like you give a shit, man.” He wasn’t baiting for pity, Lip could tell. He was being genuine; he didn’t think Lip gave two shits about him, and yeah he was probably right, except here Lip was, for some reason that he’d probably blame on his sisters if it came down to it. But they hadn’t asked him to go find Mickey. He took that upon himself and he had no fucking idea why, and he almost resented Mickey for adding to his list of shit piling up.

“Just come back to our place. Sleep it off and we’ll go find him tomorrow.”

Mickey spat on the ground and shook his head. “I just fucking told you, it’s not gonna do any good to find him.”

Lip shrugged. “I’ll go with you. Double team. Maybe we can convince him.”

Mickey didn’t respond, just kicked at the ground with the heel of his boot.

“You can stay at our house tonight,” Lip repeated.

“I have my own house.”

“Yeah? You goin’ back there? Because I don’t know what angsty bullshit you’ve got going on but apparently you’re too much of a pussy to go take care of your kid. I don’t even know why I fucking bother offering- Jesus fuck, you’re just like Fiona. You think you don’t have to face any of your fucking problems.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you, too,” Lip replied as he stood up. “Sleep on the streets, I don’t give a shit.”

Lip turned to walk away and he knew it all came down to this. If he turned and offered once more, Mickey would follow him home – he was pretty sure of that. But only if Lip offered, a final sign that Mickey had won.

Lip could stick it out. He could keep walking home and not look back, not care where Mickey was going to sleep. Or he could be the bigger person. He could turn around and tell Mickey to come the fuck on and he would know he’d done the right thing.

Lip wasn’t big on doing the right thing for people who shit on him. You get one chance, and he felt like he’d given Mickey plenty more than that already. Or maybe he hadn’t given him any at all. It didn’t really matter.

Lip kept walking and didn’t look back. He wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.

 

* * *

 

Mickey walked into the Gallagher house at five the next morning. He was pretty sure if he stayed in the rub n’ tug another second he was going to have fucking frostbite and he needed coffee. He thought about going back to his own house and surrendering, but he had seen Svetlana at work every day since then and her anger didn’t seem to fade. She actually spit on him once. So no, he wasn’t going to wave the white flag. He’d wait for her to come to him and treat him like a fucking human being for a change.

To his relief, the Gallagher house was completely silent and he tried to keep it that way as he made a pot of coffee. He knew it was only a matter of time before one of them came down the stairs and busted him but he was hoping to stave it off as long as he could.

The coffee tasted like shit. He drank it quickly, letting it burn his throat while making the rest of his body feel even colder. He knew he hadn’t really come here for the coffee, despite the lies he told himself. He came here because right now it felt more like home than his own home did. In his house there was no Mandy and there was no Ian; with only Svetlana and the baby there it felt so empty. Ideally, he would hang out at the Gallagher house and all the commotion would go on around him but no one would notice him. That’s what he wanted. He wanted to be in the background, surrounded and upstaged by the fighting and laughter of people he didn’t hate; people who didn’t remind him of how fucked up his life was. That was all Svetlana and the baby were to him: a reminder of what shouldn’t be, a reminder that he had no control of his own life.

In a perfect world he would sit in this chair and be swallowed up by the house. But he knew instead the Gallaghers would come trotting down the stairs any minute and bombard him with questions about where he’d been and what else he’d heard from Ian and probably his favorite fucking color since they were a bunch of prying assholes. But he’d take it. It wasn’t perfect, but he’d take it.

Carl was the first one to come down.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep.

Mickey lifted his cup. “Coffee.”

“Where have you been?”

“Around.”

“Except you haven’t.”

Mickey didn’t deny it, just took another sip from his mug. Carl seemed satisfied enough with the answers he got. He poured himself a bowl of cereal and sat down across from Mickey and, true to form, Carl didn’t try to push another word out of him.

Fiona was next.

“Hey, Mickey. Long time no see. “

“Hey,” he replied, watching as she poured herself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter as she sipped it.

“Carl, what are you doin’ up so early?” Fiona asked and Mickey felt like he was in some sort of twilight zone where people actually gave him space. He wasn’t going to question it.

“I’m doing morning and lunch detention so I don’t have to go this weekend.”

“Detention? What for?”

Carl shrugged. “You signed the stupid slip.”

“Did I?” Fiona said knowingly, but she let it go. She sipped at her coffee again and Mickey waited for the other shoe which was kind looking like it wasn’t going to drop.

Lip showed up in the kitchen next, just after Carl had headed out the door, and Mickey surprised himself by making eye contact right away. Rip the bandaid, or whatever the fuck it was. Might as well let Lip say his bullshit piece now so they can put it behind them. Because yeah, if he was being quite fucking honest that was another reason he showed up here this morning, to take Lip up on his offer to go get Ian. (Mickey totally didn’t count this as a loss because he had stuck it out the whole night, not following Lip back here like some lost pathetic puppy. Couldn’t quite count it as a win either but, hey, as long as Lip didn’t win he was satisfied.)

Lip stared back at him for a moment before turning to Fiona. “I gotta go to school, pack some shit for break and hang out with Amanda before she goes home.” Fiona lifted her chin in acknowledgement, her brow furrowed as she held her phone up to her ear. Lip turned back to Mickey. “We’ll go see Ian when I get back, alright?”

That threw Mickey for a fucking loop. He had been prepared to bite his tongue while Lip made some snarky remarks. If there was one thing he knew about the Gallagher it was that he had a lot of trouble keeping his mouth shut. This was seriously some twilight zone bullshit.

Mickey tried to recover quickly. “Whatever,” he sneered. “Don’t rush home on my account.”

“Trust me, I won’t.” And with that Lip was heading out the door.

“Hey,” Fiona said as she slid into the seat next to Mickey. Here we go. The other shoe. At least he knew he wasn’t fucking hallucinating.

She rested her arms on the table and leaned towards him, a friendly smile on her face.  “How useful do you think it would be for me to be indebted to you?”

“Huh?” Mickey wasn’t in the mood for any more of these stupid Gallagher’s games.

“I need a favor. I really really need it. I’d owe you huge.”

“You gonna spit it out?”

“V has to take the girls to the doctor and Sheila’s not answerin’ and I really need to take this shift.”

These people, Jesus Christ. “I’ve yet to hear a fucking favor.”

“Watch Liam? It’ll just be til the kids get home from school and he’s insanely easy to take care of, I swear.”

 “Oh so you can throw shit in my face about not being a good parent but as soon as you need a babysitter I’m your man? You fuckin’ people. I don’t understand you.”

“I may have been a little out of line. We’ll talk, okay?”

“No thanks,” because the last thing Mickey was trying to get from that was a heart-to-heart with Fiona about how his son was the result of his dad forcing him to fuck a hooker. He sure as shit wasn’t looking for a shoulder to cry on.

“We’ll talk. Later. But for now,” she clasped her hands together and put on her best begging smile. “Pleeeeease?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. He should probably put up more of a fight, but fuck it. “I gotta run some errands. He need a fucking diaper bag or some shit?”

“He’s potty-trained so you’re golden.” She stood up and planted a kiss in his hair. “Thank you!”

Babysitting and accepting head kisses. These Gallaghers were going to fucking kill him.

 

* * *

 

“You can talk, right?”

Liam nodded. They were walking down the street, Liam’s hand wrapped around Mickey’s middle and index fingers. Fiona had offered him a stroller but a) he was not gonna be caught dead pushing a fucking stroller and b) he was pretty sure the kid was fully capable of walking.

“Don’t hear you talk much. You got brain damage from the coke or are you just a quiet kid?”

Liam didn’t respond, just hopped a few steps and kicked at a rock.

“My brother Iggy had a cinderblock dropped on his head, probably has some brain damage from it and he turned out alright.”

“Iggy?” Liam asked, looking up at Mickey.

“Yeah. My brother Iggy.”

Liam nodded and Mickey waited for him to elaborate on his question but he didn’t, just kicked at another rock and jumped over a crack in the pavement. Kids were fucking weird.

They arrived at their destination and Mickey turned to Liam before they walked through the door. “Alright, little man. We’re here. Try to look really cute and really fuckin’ needy, alright? Maybe thrown in a pouty lip.”

Liam frowned and stuck out his lower lip, granting Mickey’s request. Mickey couldn’t help but laugh which resulted in Liam giggling loudly, too. Kids could be kind of cool, too. Or at least this one could.

The bell on the door jingled as they entered and Mickey walked up to the kid at the counter. He had shaggy brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks and his t-shirt that consisted of more holes than fabric.

“Hey. Linda here?”

The kid stared at him blankly.

“Hello? You got a brain in that skull of yours?”

“What?” The kid sounded confused. Jesus Christ.

“Holy fuck, Linda, lady who owns the store, about yay tall, kind of annoying, probably always on your ass?”

The kid shrugged. Mickey wanted to slug him. “Who’s askin’?”

Mickey raised his eyebrows and gave the kid a look that said something like _I’ll kick your fucking ass_. The kid sighed dramatically but picked up the phone.

Mickey gnawed on his lip as he waited. He hadn’t exactly rehearsed what he was going to say, but that was only because he had no fucking idea what Linda was going to say to him. The furthest he got when he imagined the conversation ‘hi.’ After that there were about sixteen thousand different ways it could go.

“Milkovich?”

Mickey turned to see Linda approaching him, looking about as happy as she usually did – which would probably be rated a three on a scale of one to ten happiness.

“Hi.” Well, at least he got that part right.

“What the hell do you want?”

“I see you’ve got a slow one running the register.”

“At least he doesn’t steal.” The kid probably wasn’t smart enough to even open the fucking register so really, how much credit could they give him for that?

“Ay, I never stole while I worked here.”

Linda’s face dropped down to about a two on the happiness scale. “You emptied the register on your last day.”

“I took what I was owed.”

“What do you want, Mickey?” She sounded extremely annoyed but she wasn’t screaming at him yet so he’d say things were going fairly well.

Mickey took a deep breath in. “I want you to give Ian his job back.”

Linda didn’t reply for a while. Like, at least a full minute. He wasn’t sure if she was intentionally trying to make him squirm (she probably was) but it was easily the most uncomfortable minute of Mickey’s life.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she finally responded.

“He was a good worker and you know it. Probably the best you had.”

“He sat behind the counter and usually showed up on time. I wouldn’t exactly give him a medal.”

“But I’m guessing it’s more than you can say for this twat, right?” Mickey gestured towards the kid behind the counter and the kid looked up like he was just now realizing there was other people in the room.

Linda remained firm. “I’m not hiring.”

“Please?” Mickey knew exactly what he was doing, knew what weapons he had in his arsenal. That was one of the perks of people hating him and thinking he was nothing more than a heartless asshole thug – words like _please_ and _thank you_ and saying anything with the slightest hint of genuineness suddenly held a thousand times more power.

As expected, it caught Linda’s attention. She didn’t drop the attitude but she didn’t throw him out into the street either. “Why?”

“Because he needs it.”

“Oh does he? Well I needed him when he left without notice and I had a store to run by myself.”

“He wasn’t- he wasn’t thinking straight,” Mickey stuttered. He didn’t want to get into the specifics of Ian’s fucking… _condition_ or whatever the hell it was but he also wanted her to know that she could still trust him. “He had a lot of shit going on but I think this would be… I don’t know, I think this would be really good for him or some shit.”

“I’m not worried about what’s good for him, I’m worried about what’s good for me.”

“That’s what I’m saying, this would be good for you.”

“He going to school?”

“No. He can be here whenever you need him.”

“Idiot. He should be in school.”

“Thought you didn’t care what’s good for him.”

“I don’t. Walking away now. Bother me again and I’ll call the police.”

“Linda, come on, please.” Reaching deeper into the arsenal. Using her name. That got people. And it wasn’t something Mickey was willing to do often.

“I’ve been fucked over by too many men in my life to feel even the least bit sorry for you, Milkovich. So don’t even try it.”

“It was my fault Ian fucked you over.”

“I don’t give a shit whose fault it was. Defending your boyfriend’s honor doesn’t change what I went through after he left, trying to find a halfway decent replacement while running this shit hole by myself and, oh yeah, taking care of my kids!” She really was tough; Mickey would admire her balls if she wasn’t ruining his whole fucking plan.

“Well it looks like you’re still strugglin’ to find one.” They both glanced over at the kid behind the counter again; he was staring at the countertop, unmoving, like he was completely oblivious to the shouting match taking place two feet in front of him. Mickey could kiss him for being so helpful in proving his point. “I’m just tryin’ to help you and Ian out. It’s a win-win.”

He watched as Linda’s eyes fell to Liam, the small boy quietly playing with Mickey’s fingers. Another weapon he had, the kid, and he hadn’t even needed to mention it. Maybe it made Linda see him as a human being for once, more than just the stupid kid who used to steal from her.

“He starts the Monday after Christmas.”

Truth be told, as hell bent as Mickey was on coming here, he never in a million years thought he’d win this argument. Partially because things never really went his way, especially lately, and partially because Linda was a hardass and hated Mickey quite possibly more than any other person on the planet. He tried to hide the shock on his face and nodded, considering offering her a handshake but he couldn’t stomach it. She’d probably laugh in his face anyways.

“Thank you,” he said instead and walked out the door before he could say anything to fuck it up.

 

* * *

 

That night, Lip Gallagher and Mickey Milkovich walked into a gay club and Lip felt like that was probably the opening line of a great joke that he couldn't come up with at the moment. He was losing his touch.

Mickey caught sight of Ian first and hit Lip’s chest to get his attention. He followed Mickey’s eyes and was grateful to find Ian dancing onstage instead of in some old dude’s lap and his eyes didn’t give the impression that he’d been taking any treats from the onlookers.

Ian stepped down as soon as he saw Mickey and Lip and walked over to them.

“Hey,” he said casually like he hadn’t run away and been hiding out for the past week and a half.

As per their agreement on the way over, Mickey kept his mouth shut while Lip did the talking. “Hey? That all we get?”

“I’d offer you a dance, but…” Ian said to Lip with a smirk. Lip wasn’t sure whether to be relieved Ian wasn’t pissed or to be pissed Ian was acting like nothing had happened.

“You know Fiona’s worrying herself to death, right?”

“She knew I was fine.”

“She knew you were alive. There’s a difference.”

That seemed to hit a nerve with Ian. The carefree smile fell from his face at the reminder of their previous conversation. “I’m fine.” He turned to go back to the stage but Mickey caught his arm.

“Just come home,” Mickey said, his hand still wrapped around Ian’s bicep. “If you’re pissed at me, that’s fine. But there’s other people in your life, man.”

“Well I’m pissed at all them, too,” Ian replied, shooting a glance at Lip.

Lip laughed. He was enjoying being the bad cop in he and Mickey’s good cop/bad cop routine a little too much. “You don’t get to be pissed at us for caring about you.”

Mickey, a.k.a. good cop, interjected before Ian could throw anything back in Lip’s face. “What about Debbie and Carl? You pissed at them? ‘Cause don’t think they haven’t been asking why you left again. And how ‘bout Liam? How’re we supposed to explain this shit to him?”

Ian looked away from Mickey and Lip knew they had him. He watched as Ian pretended to mull it over for another minute so as not to give the impression that they had won that easily. “I get done at two. I’ll come-“

“Or you could come now.” Lip glared at Mickey, wanting to tell him to _not fucking push it._

“I’m working.”

“There’s better jobs out there.”

Ian laughed. “For me?”

“Yeah.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Mickey-“

“I miss you. So shut the fuck up and come home. We’re not gonna make you do anything you don’t wanna do, okay?” And at that Lip kind of wanted to throw up because he really didn’t want to get to know the softer side of Mickey Milkovich and yet here he was for the 87th time witnessing the man turn to mush.

Ian rolled his eyes but was clearly trying to hide a smile. “Jesus, okay, don’t break out the tears. I’ll go change. You’re lucky we’re slow tonight.”

“Guess you didn’t need me after all.” Lip said to Mickey as they went to wait outside for Ian. He was a little disappointed that Ian had given in so easily. Or more so that Mickey was able to convince him so easily.

Mickey shrugged. “You were a pretty good bad cop. I mean, you’re an asshole anyways so I guess you didn’t have far to reach.”

“I guess you didn’t have far to reach either Mr. ‘I miss you so much, please come home to me,’” Lip chided back, knowing that calling Mickey soft was a much bigger insult than calling him an asshole.

“Worked, didn’t it?” Yeah, because Lip believed that Mickey had only sad it as a ploy and not because he meant it. Right.

They stood outside the club smoking and waiting for Ian, and Lip found himself wondering why he and Mickey always ended up sharing a fucking cigarette.

 

* * *

 

Ian and Mickey had walked back to the Milkovich house in silence, but Mickey broke the tension as soon as they walked through the door.

“Go take a shower. Then meet me in the bedroom.”

“You wanna join me?” Ian asked, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

“No, I showered before we went to find your sweaty ass. Go wash the perv germs offa you, we got some making up to do.”

“So we’re skipping the actual talking part of the makeup and just going straight to sex?”

There was a lot they could talk about, a lot they probably needed to talk about, but Mickey didn't see the conversations going anywhere, just circling and circling until their words grew tired and their ability to care and their will to try diminished.

So no talking. Not now. Not when he'd just gotten Ian back. “Got a problem with that?”

“Nope.”

 

* * *

 

If there was one thing Mickey needed after not seeing Ian for over a week, it was this.

Not so much the sex – well, of course the sex – but what he really craved was the intimacy; the touching, the holding, breathing into each other’s ears, feeling the warmth radiate off another person. Before Ian, he would’ve never thought stuff like that would matter so much to him. But now it was something he needed. Something that made him feel calm and safe and other things that he didn’t even know how to put into words because he had never fucking felt them before. Something close to ‘loved’ and ‘wanted’ if he had to guess. ‘Protected,’ maybe. All he knew for sure was that it was only Ian who could make him feel that way. The fact that Ian could do that was both scary and comforting at the same time.

Ian came into the room and dropped his towel to the ground, quickly crawling onto the bed and hovering above Mickey only for a second before bringing his lips down to meet Mickey’s. That was another thing Mickey had never thought he’d like: kissing. But he fucking loved kissing Ian and he didn’t care who knew it (well, he didn’t care that Ian knew it; anyone else, yeah he’d care). He moved his hands along Ian’s back, up and down slowly a few times before reaching for Ian’s cock.

Mickey had taken the liberty of getting himself ready while Ian was in the shower so he was already painfully hard, his dick rubbing against Ian’s stomach. Ian grabbed his own cock out of Mickey’s hand and moved to get the lube when Mickey stopped him.

“Wait. What do you want?”

Ian looked down at him, extremely confused at the sudden interruption. “What?”

“What do you wanna do? How do you want it?”

Ian smiled, looking at Mickey questioningly. “Is this an apology?”

“No, fuckhead. I don’t have anything to apologize for. I just missed you.”

Ian smiled wider and pulled Mickey in for a kiss. “I want whatever you want.”

Mickey pulled away, annoyed. “Seriously, man. What do you want?”

“I am serious.”

“Jesus, try to do somethin’ nice for ya and you can’t even go along with it?”

Ian grabbed the lube and was soon pushing into Mickey and Mickey didn’t say another word, overwhelmed by the sudden fullness.

Ian was going slow but hard, hitting Mickey in the perfect spot. One hand was on Mickey’s lower back holding him up just slightly so Ian could hit his prostate. The other arm was near Mickey’s head, supporting Ian’s weight. Ian went from kissing sloppily at Mickey’s mouth to sucking on his neck and then down to his collarbone.

It was everything Mickey loved, and Mickey fucking hated it. He tried to fend off his approaching orgasm because this wasn’t what he wanted and he was pissed at Ian for doing it.

He felt like an idiot for being this upset about it. His boyfriend was fucking him for the first time in almost two weeks and it felt fucking amazing and anything else just meant he was being a pussy. But they were supposed to be doing what Ian liked, it was supposed to be perfect for Ian, and Ian wouldn’t let him. Wouldn’t fucking tell him what he wanted. Wouldn’t tell him anything. And Mickey was realizing that Ian hadn’t told him much of anything in months.

Ian nibbled at Mickey’s ear and Mickey leaned into it for a moment, the feeling of Ian’s hot breath on his neck giving him chills. Ian’s hand had moved to Mickey’s cock, stroking it tightly in rhythm with his thrusts. Slow and deep. Every time Ian moved his hips forward it felt deeper than the last, like their bodies were getting closer and closer together and soon they wouldn’t be able to discern one from the other. Mickey wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Ian’s back and bring him even closer, the sweat gluing their bodies together until they both climaxed. His nails would dig into Ian’s back and Ian would gasp into his ear as he came. And Mickey would hold him tighter, not letting go.

Mickey knew he was close, only a minute or so away from the scene in his heading unfolding in reality. He felt Ian’s mouth crash into his own again, teeth on teeth before Ian bit down on Mickey’s lower lip and tugged at it gently. Mickey felt his cock twitch and he turned his face away from Ian before it went any further, dropping his hands to the bed.

“What?” Ian said breathlessly as his movements ceased. It was so quiet, nothing but the sound of their breathing and Mickey honed in on it, getting his breaths in time with Ian’s.

“I’m fucking trying, Ian.” He was sure Ian would have no idea what the fuck he was talking about. Mickey wasn’t even sure he knew himself. Just knew that he couldn’t, that he was angry and frustrated and scared, and he was _trying_ but it wasn’t fucking working.

“Mickey, hey.” Ian put his hand on Mickey’s cheek, willing Mickey to look at him. He brought his eyes up to meet Ian’s and took in the sight before him. Ian’s face was pink, sweat beading on his forehead and nose. His lips were red and swollen and his hair was falling in his face. He looked beautiful.

“I’m fine,” Ian told him, and Mickey was grateful that Ian clearly understood his sudden shutdown had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with everything else. But the gratefulness stopped there. _I’m fine._ He had said it with such reassurance, such meaning. He’d said with so much care because for once he wasn’t saying it to get people of his back. This time he was saying it for Mickey, all for Mickey, and Mickey wanted nothing more than to believe him wholeheartedly and forget everything else. But he couldn’t. And he hated Ian for thinking he could, for saying it in the first place.

Mickey swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and opened it to say something but closed it again. He wanted to beg Ian to stop lying to him. Stop trying to reassure him, to make him feel better, because what Mickey wanted more than anything was for Ian to admit that he wasn’t okay. He wanted to hear Ian acknowledge that he was not fucking fine, not at all. He needed that, he needed those words more than he needed air because he couldn’t fucking breathe under all this denial.

But the words died in his throat. He bit his lip and flipped them over, lowering himself down back onto Ian’s erection quickly. He rolled his hips and rode Ian hard and fast as Ian’s breathing grew more erratic beneath him.

“Fuck, Mick. Fucking fuck.” Ian grabbed Mickey’s hips tightly and pushed him down harder, his thumbs digging into Mickey’s hipbones.

Mickey grabbed his own cock and made quick work of himself. Everything felt so intense; hard and fast and his own grip too tight around his cock but he needed it. It was all too much but he wanted more. He wanted there to be deafening noise in his ears and and a weight on his chest to stifle his rapid heartbeat.

Ian gasped as he came and Mickey pumped his fist around his cock until he followed, resting his forehead on Ian’s as he rode out his orgasm.

He didn’t linger for long before rolling over and collapsing next to Ian, welcoming the sleep that was suddenly washing over him.

 

* * *

 

Mickey had a lot of dreams about Ian ever since they’d met. Rarely were they happy ones. When Ian was gone, off to the army or God knows where, Mickey’s dreams weren’t even filled with what could have been; they were filled with regret and every mistake he’d made along the way and fears of where Ian might be now.

Since Ian got back, his dreams had been so realistic it almost pained him to go to sleep every night. Falling into a dream in which Ian was crying, endlessly, not stopping no matter what Mickey did. Or a dream where Ian moved back in with his family and blamed Mickey for countless things that even Mickey knew couldn’t be his fault. His dad walking in on them, Ian not getting into West Point, Mandy leaving, Monica being bipolar, Ian’s dreams of being an officer crushed. Well, maybe some of them might have been his fault. But even the ones that couldn’t be still carried the same sting.

Tonight, Mickey dreamed of his mom. She and Ian were sitting on the couch in the Milkovich living room. She was cradling Ian’s head in her arms, holding him closely against her chest, telling him everything would be okay. Mickey watched them for a while, just stared as his mom rocked slowly back and forth while petting Ian’s hair. Ian’s arms were wrapped around her and Mickey couldn’t see his face. He wondered if he was crying.

The funny thing about dreams is that you often feel so aware, so conscious. Sometimes they’re so real that you can truly feel every single emotion. Stress, anxiety, fear, sadness, worry, hope, love. Sometimes those feelings are so strong that even when you wake up you’re still feeling them, even after you realize it was a dream. It’s like your brain is having a war with itself, part of it trying to convince you that it wasn’t real while another part protests _no, I felt it, it was real, it was so real._ Eventually the feelings fade along with the dream and all that’s left is a vague memory that doesn’t seem realistic at all. It’s funny how your brain does that to you, like it’s playing a sick joke. Your own mind fucking with your own mind.

Mickey’s mom was alive and well holding a seventeen year old Ian but nothing about that seemed odd to Mickey. Not while he watched them. It felt real. Initially he was worried about Ian, wondering what was wrong and if something had happened. But then his worry was replaced with jealousy. His mom had never held him like that. When he was eight he had broken his ankle jumping off their front porch. When it happened it didn’t hurt right away; it wasn’t until he tried to stand up that a sudden pain shot up his leg and made his vision go white. He fell back to the ground and looked down to assess the damage. His foot was turned in an impossible direction and splintered bone poked through his skin. The sight made him queasy; as many injuries as he had had in his life up to that point, he’d never seen his own bones. Tears streamed down his face and he knew there was no point in trying stifle his cries.

Mickey remembered feeling so relieved for a moment knowing that his mom was in the house. He screamed for her until Mandy finally came out. She took one look at him and ran back inside to get their mother. It was so hot out. Mickey could still remember the feeling of his tears drying quickly, making his face feel stiff. More tears fell and then they dried, too, and Mickey thought about wiping the next ones away before they had the chance to stick to his face but he didn’t. He let them stay there and crust onto his skin making his face feel stiff.

When his mother finally came out she didn’t walk down the stairs, just stood on the porch and looked down at her red-faced son. “Goddammit, Mickey!” She was angry, annoyed. “Get the fuck inside before the neighbors hear you.” She went back in and Mandy helped Mickey up the stairs. Mickey sat and watched as his mom patted make-up onto her face, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. “They’re probably gonna think I threw you down some fucking stairs, I swear to God if we have to deal with CPS-“

She caked powder on the dark circles under her eyes which didn’t make her look any less like a junkie, just more like a person who was trying to hide the fact that she was a fucking junkie. She scurried through the house trying to find something to wear that would cover her track marks, coming up with nothing but a thick black sweatshirt that would look nothing short of completely out of place in the dead of summer.

At the hospital she did nothing but sit in the chair beside his bed and fidget, biting her nails and playing with the cuffs of her sweatshirt. He had wanted her to hold him, but he didn’t ask.

So now, seeing her hold Ian, comforting him, it made Mickey’s blood boil.

After watching them for what felt like hours he moved closer, leaning over Ian to get a look at his face. There was a bullet hole between his eyes.

“What happened to him?” Mickey asked his mother.

“He was in the army. He was a soldier, Mickey. Do you know what that means?”

Mickey nodded because of course he knew what that meant. He suddenly noticed that Ian was in uniform, the grayish green camo not at all complimenting against his sickly gray skin.

“He’ll be okay,” she said as she continued to rock him back and forth.

“Mom, he’s dead.” Mickey said it without any remorse.

“He’ll be okay. It’s alright, sweetie. You’re gonna be fine.”

Mickey wanted to ask her why she’d rather hold a dead kid she’d never met than her own son, but he was abruptly being thrown back into reality, blinking awake to the sight of Ian staring back at him.

“You were talking,” Ian said when he was satisfied that Mickey was awake enough for conversation.

“What?”

“You were mumbling in your sleep.”

“What’d I say?” Mickey asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer. It probably wouldn’t be the first time Ian heard him say stupid shit in his sleep though since he had dreams like that almost every fucking night.

“I didn’t catch most of it. Something about a unicorn?”

Mickey laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure that was it.”

Ian stretched and grinned at him. “Hey, I don’t know what kind of weird fantasies you have. Just keep the bestiality in your dreams, okay?”

“Fuck you.” Mickey craned his neck to plant a kiss on his lips. Mornings were probably his favorite part of the day, when they both woke up early enough to stay in bed and talk or fuck or even cuddle. Those moments were like the universe making up for anything bad it ever threw at him.

So why Mickey felt the need to ruin this particular morning so soon, he would never know.

“Hey. So I, uh, I got you your job back at the Kash and Grab.”

Ian’s body immediately grew rigid. “You what? Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Because you needed a job.”

“I have a job.”

“I told you, you’re done there.”

Ian pulled himself up on his elbow, glaring at Mickey. “What gives you the right to make that decision?”

“It’s not good for you to be there, Ian.”

“Jesus Christ.” Ian got out of bed and searched the floor for the cleanest pair of jeans to throw on. Mickey felt hopeless, having no fucking idea what he could say to save the conversation.

“Look, Linda’s cool with giving you your job back, okay? Just take it.”

“No,” Ian said firmly as he pulled on a pair of jeans and then a t-shirt. “I’m not moving backwards, Mickey.”

“Oh, because shaking your ass in a gay club is such a huge step forward?” If he didn’t know how to save the conversation he might as well be an asshole about it.

“I didn’t fucking say that, I just said I don’t want to move backwards.”

“Fucking Christ, Ian.”

“Look, I’m not fighting about this. And I don’t want to be mad at you. So I’m gonna go hang out at my house for a while and when I come back here tonight everything will be fine and you won’t bring this up again. Okay?”

Mickey scoffed and shook his head. “Whatever, man.” He wasn’t usually one to back down from a fight but Ian was a stubborn fuck and truthfully, Mickey didn’t want to be mad at him again either. This argument could wait a few days if it had to. They had time.

 

* * *

 

The following week was Christmas.

On Christmas Eve Ian didn’t get out of bed.

Mickey had been dreaming about him again. Ian was sitting on the kitchen floor of the Milkovich house howling with laughter. Mickey asked him what the fuck was so funny, but Ian didn’t answer. He asked him again and again until he was just screaming his name over and over, running up to Ian to shake him, but he didn’t stop laughing. It was like Ian couldn’t hear him at all.

Mickey had woken suddenly from the dream and rolled over to wake Ian, feeling stupid but needing to hear his voice. Ian groaned softly in response and realistically that didn’t mean anything; tired people being shaken awake typically would groan in response. But Mickey knew. All this good luck he'd been getting, it had lasted way too long, longer than he ever thought possible. 'Bout time the world reminded him that he wasn't allowed to be happy.

He tried for a while longer before leaving Ian alone. He got out of bed despite the sun barely being up, took a piss, texted the Gallaghers, and sat next to Ian in bed waiting for any sign that he was wrong.

 

* * *

 

The morning of Christmas Eve Debbie woke up to a group text.

Mickey: _don’t think we’ll be over tonight. Ian’s bad again_

Lip: _perfect. merry fucking xmas_

Fiona: _:/ keep us updated. i’ll call u after my shift_

Debbie’s heart fell into her stomach. Things had been looking up. Ian had been good for so long, and they were planning on having a fun-filled Christmas Eve together. Sometimes she was convinced the universe hated them. Or maybe her family was cursed. Maybe they had a Madame Zeroni in their past that one of their stupid ancestors had fucked over.

She sent Mickey a text saying she’d be over later. He didn’t respond.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Debbie stepped foot on the Milkovich porch she could hear the baby’s wails. She let herself in, not sure anyone would hear her knocks over the cries anyway.

Debbie picked up the screaming baby out of the crib and held him close against her chest, whispering soft shushes into his ear as she walked towards the room that undoubtedly held a sight she was not prepared to see again.

The hinges squeaked as she shouldered the door open. Ian was lying the same way she had seen him lie months ago when this whole mess was just beginning. Mickey was sitting on the bed next to him, not touching Ian or looking at him, just staring into his own hands. He looked up at Debbie and then to Ian, checking to see if the sound of a visitor had made him stir at all. It hadn’t.

Debbie stood in the doorway and rubbed Yev’s back. His cries had grown quieter but were still strong.

“How long’s he been crying?” she asked him, and then quickly remembered to gesture to the baby because it could actually be interpreted as a question about Ian and she felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Mickey shrugged. “A while.” His voice sounded low and hoarse, like he’d either been crying or he hadn’t used it in a while. Maybe both.

“He’s probably not gonna stop on his own then. Is he hungry? When’s the last time he ate?”

Another shrug. “Not that long. Svetlana fed him before she left.”

“When was that?”

“Like, noon?”

“Mickey, it’s almost six.”

Mickey seemed to become more alert at that, grabbing his phone to check the time and then bringing his hand up to rub his eyes. “Fuck.”

“It’s okay, I can feed him.”

Mickey sighed and stood up. “I got it.” He took the baby out of her arms and nodded towards Ian. “See what you can do,” he said quietly.

Debbie walked over to the other side of the bed and sat down on the floor in front of Ian’s face. His eyes were open, looking eerily vacant. It reminded her so much of Monica and yet it was so different, so much worse. Maybe it was because she loved Ian more than she could ever love Monica. Or maybe it was because Ian had been so strong before, someone she had looked up to monumentally, which made it that much harder to see him so vulnerable.

“Hey. Merry Christmas Eve.” She smiled at him and racked her brain for something to talk to him about because this was what she did;

“So remember that book Holes? Well, it was a movie, too, but I read the book first because we had to in third grade. We had the same teacher, right? Mrs. Evingston? So you probably had to read it, too. Anyways, remember how there was that story about Madame Zeroni and Stanley’s great great-great-grandfather or something like that was supposed to carry her up a mountain? Because she gave him a pig. But he was greedy and ungrateful so he didn’t go back for her, and then their family was cursed forever. Well, I’m pretty sure that’s what happened to our family. Because we seem pretty cursed. And can’t you totally picture Frank doing something like that? Well, I mean it was probably actually Frank’s great-great-grandfather or something but I’m sure he was stupid and selfish just like Frank.”

Ian’s face didn’t change. He stared at the ground and blinked once in a while, but it didn’t look like he planned on responding to Debbie’s story. That was okay with her; she wanted him to talk to her, sure, but that’s not why she was talking to him. She just wanted to give him something other than pity for a minute.

“And the curse was broken when Stanley carried Zero up the hill because Zero was related to Madame Zeroni. Hey, maybe if you carry Mickey up a hill our curse will be broken.” She smiled and stood up leaning over to kiss his cheek. “We’ll try that soon. Love you.”

When Debbie stood up she noticed Mickey standing in the doorway, watching their interaction as he fed the baby. She walked over to him and took Yev, putting the bottle back in his mouth before he grew fussy again.

“He probably needs to be changed, too. What about a bath? Does he need one?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Well, he’d been sitting in his crib for six hours and for all they knew he might’ve been lying in his own poop that whole time so she might as well be proactive. “I’ll give him a bath. What time’s Svetlana supposed to be back?”

“Probably late.”

“On Christmas Eve?”

“Sad guys alone on a holiday? It’s a big day for rub n’ tugs.”

Debbie pursed her lips in acknowledgement. “I’ll stay until he goes down for the night. He’ll probably need another bottle before then, anyways.”

“You don’t have to-“

“I want to.”

“You should be at home. I’m sure Fiona wants you there.”

Debbie shrugged. “We don’t really make that big a deal outta Christmas.” It was true for the most part; they didn’t plan a big shindig with tons of gifts and food or anything like that. But it still felt like a lie because they always spent Christmas Eve together, sitting around watching holiday movies and laughing when someone got drunk enough to start Christmas karaoke. It wasn’t much, but it was special.

Last year was different. They had tried to enjoy it, tried to keep the same spirit they always had but Ian was gone and his absence was all too noticeable. They’d ended up watching one movie before sulking upstairs and going to bed.

This year was supposed to be different. Like old times again, with an added Mickey. Debbie and Carl were both excited about it and she knew Fiona was too, not that she had mentioned it. Debbie figured her reason for not mentioning it was probably her fear of this, exactly this, happening. Ian not coming. Again.

So she told Mickey, “Fiona’ll be cool with it, I promise,” she knew it was the truth. She knew there would still be movie night tonight; Fiona would insist on doing it for Carl and Liam, would pop in The Santa Clause and make popcorn and sit down with everyone to watch it. But it wouldn’t matter, not really, because Liam would likely be the only one watching while Lip and Fiona and Carl thought about the missing piece that had created an aching hole in their lives.

Debbie headed into the living room laid Yev down on, pulling out her phone to send a quick text to Fiona before changing the squirming baby’s diaper.

A minute later when she was finishing up changing one of the most disgusting diapers he’d ever seen, Mickey emerged from the bedroom looking timid. It was a look which Debbie had come to learn meant Mickey wanted to ask her something but also really didn’t want to ask her.

“Your baby poops like a man. You should be proud,” she told him as she walked over and threw the diaper in the trash.

“He gets that from Svetlana.”

Debbie laughed and rolled her eyes, hoping their efforts at easing the tension would make Mickey spit out whatever was on his mind.

“Come on, Yevvy.” She picked up the baby and walked slowly towards the bathroom, not wanting to give Mickey the impression that she was walking out on their conversation that hadn’t even begun yet but she did have a naked poopy baby that probably shouldn’t stay that way for very long.

She adjusted the temperature of the bath water and put Yev in his seat in the tub, the toddler splashing timidly at the water. It wasn’t long before Mickey emerged again, biting his lip.

“So nothing ever worked? With your mom?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Like, when she was depressed or whatever. You guys talking to her, it never helped?”

Debbie thought about it for a moment. She remembered being really little and crying on the floor of her parents’ bedroom when Monica refused to get out of bed. She had thrown a fit when she said nothing more than ‘Debbie, please leave’ in a quiet, defeated voice. Debbie had kicked and screamed until Lip came in and picked her up off the floor and stroked her hair until she calmed down, telling her ‘it’s okay, Debs. She can’t, she can’t’ trying his best to explain it to a distraught three year old. That was her first memory of depressed Monica. All her other memories of it weren’t much different, only with quiet tears instead of a tantrum. Debbie would hug her and tell her how much she loved her, and Monica would cry and remain where she was.

“No. We tried. But we always just had to wait it out.”

Mickey nodded. “So you don’t think there’s anything I could say?”

“What do you want to say?”

“I don’t know.” That was a lie. Debbie could feel it in her gut; Mickey knew exactly what he wanted to say, what he thought he should say to Ian to make him snap out of it. She was fairly sure Mickey and Ian had never told each other flat out how they felt even though it was clear they felt that way. They showed it, and that seemed like enough. Debbie admittedly didn’t know a whole lot about relationships, having little experience in that area, but she didn’t think now would be the best time for Mickey to open up just to try to coax Ian out of his depressive state.

“Look, Mickey, I know this isn’t what you want to hear but I don’t think anything you say will make Ian feel better. It took me a long time to learn that Monica wasn’t just being stubborn. She wasn’t staying in bed because she wanted to, ya know?”

Micky bit his bottom lip and scratched at his chin with his thumb. “Yeah,” he said after a moment before turning and leaving Debbie to take care of his kid.

 

* * *

 

Mickey sat down on the floor in the same spot Debbie had sat, next to the bed just in front of Ian, right in his line of sight. Ian’s eyes were open but they didn’t move to meet Mickey’s when he sat down, just stared mindlessly at Mickey’s knee instead.

He’d heard Debbie loud and clear. And he knew she was probably right. He’d seen last time this happened that there wasn’t anything that could lift Ian’s spirits. But he hadn’t tried everything. And seeing Ian like this wasn’t something he could do again. He couldn’t sit here and stare at him knowing he hadn’t tried absolutely everything in his arsenal. What was the harm in trying?

“I love you, Ian.” He didn’t say it with the desperation that he was feeling. At least, he tried not to. He didn’t want the words to sound like begging. Maybe they still did; his voice was a little wobbly and the force he said them with seemed to do the opposite of disguise.

But Ian didn’t move a muscle. Mickey was hoping he would look at him or at least close his eyes or turn away or just fucking do something. But Ian’s eyes stayed on Mickey’s knee, giving no indication that he had even heard the words Mickey confessed.

“I’m not asking you to say it back or do a fucking happy dance. Can you just look at me?”

Mickey had been patient, he’d been careful. He’d walked on fucking egg shells around him. None of that seemed to do a damn thing to help.

“Ian.”

He might as well talk to him. Or at him, as the case may be.

“Fucking look at me. Please.”

Mickey had the urge to throw things. To break a fucking chair and put his fist through the wall and maybe burn the fucking house down. Whatever it took to make Ian flinch. To make him look at him. To make him look like more than a fucking corpse.

Instead, Mickey laughed. “I’m trying here, man. Just tell me what to do.”

Ian blinked.

Mickey stayed there on the floor, refusing to get up until Ian acknowledged him. He knew he wouldn’t win.

Not that it mattered. What would he even do if he looked at him, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Come chat with me on tumblr at backstreet-gurl.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

“Then he’ll want to hang his picture on your refrigerator, which means he’ll need-“

“Tape!” Liam exclaimed.

Fiona grinned and continued reading. “Looking at the refrigerator will remind him that he’s thirsty, so he’ll ask for a glass of-“

“Milk! And a cookie!”

“Have we read this one too many times?” she put the book down on the couch beside her and tickled Liam, laughing with him as he squirmed.

Hearing noise in the kitchen, Fiona gave Liam one last tickle and a kiss before heading into the next room to find Debbie scarfing down a PopTart and a glass of orange juice.

“Where you off to?”

Debbie gave her a pointed look.

“Mickey’s? Again?”

“They need help,” Debbie said, annoyance creeping into her voice. Fiona knew she was staving off a lecture, telling Fiona _I’m not giving you attitude yet but I will if I have to._

“What does Mickey do while you’re there, Debs?” She wasn’t really sure what had initiated this situation – whether Debbie had offered or Mickey had asked – but either way she didn’t like it. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Debbie spending time with Mickey or helping him out, but she had a feeling Debbie wasn’t seeing much of Ian and Mickey while she was there, and she also had a feeling that Mickey didn’t actually need her help.

Debbie shrugged. “He’s in his room mostly.”

“Then why does he need your help?”

“To take care of the baby.”

“No, I get that. But why can’t _he_ take care of the baby?”

Debbie shrugged again and downed the last of her orange juice. “He’s taking care of Ian.”

Fiona couldn’t tell if Debbie was just sticking up for Mickey or if she actually believed what she was saying. “Ian lays in bed, how much can there be for-“

“I don’t know! Why do you care? If I want to go over there, I can go over there.”

“Thought you were gonna babysit for the Malloy’s over break to get some extra cash?”

“There’s seven kids in that family. Taking care of one is much easier.”

“But they pay you, which is more than you can say for Mickey. Pay you good, too.” Debbie raised an eyebrow and Fiona realized that came out a little harsher than she had intended. “It’s just, you were excited when you told me about it last week.”

“Family’s more important. It’s no big deal.”

“Look, Debs, it’s real nice what you’re doin’ for Mickey. It is. But he’s an adult, a parent. He can take care of his own kid.”

Fiona was expecting Debbie to fume, but she looked pensive instead. “I don’t think… I don’t think he likes him.”

“You don’t think Mickey likes his kid?” It wasn’t exactly a surprise to Fiona; she’d seen the way Mickey acted around the baby. But she had explained that away with other things: being lazy and unwilling to commit to the duties of a parent, not knowing how to take care of a kid, or even being afraid of being a shitty parent like his own. She never thought that it revolved around Mickey’s dislike for the baby.

“He just… he looks…sad. Whenever he looks at the baby. Like, not normal Mickey sad. A different kind of sad. I don’t know,” Debbie said as she shook her head, growing frustrated at her inability to make Fiona understand. “I can’t explain it.”

Fiona looked at her sympathetically. Debbie, despite her attitude at times and her new rebellious nature, was a fucking great kid. A genuinely good person, with such a big heart. Which was why she couldn’t stand to see her being taken advantage of.

“Look, why don’t you go watch the Malloy kids and I’ll go help Mickey. I’ve been wanting to hang out with Ian, anyways.”

Debbie looked at her skeptically. “You just told me to let Mickey deal with the baby himself and now you expect me to believe that you’re going to go help him? You’re gonna yell at him.”

“I’m not gonna yell at him. Promise. I’m gonna spend some time with my brother, and I’ll talk to Mickey about the baby. Maybe I can get him to tell me what’s eatin’ him.”

“Yeah, good luck," Debbie snorted. It was true that Mickey was a tightly bound book when he wanted to be, but there were times when Fiona was shocked at how much he'd shown her. "But fine. I bet I can get the Malloys to pay me double the usual rate since they were so desperate.”

“Atta girl. You play them middle class yuppies.”

Debbie rolled her eyes, but a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Yev’s a good sleeper once you get him down. Just pat his butt and walk around with him. Usually falls asleep in a few minutes if you do that. He still takes two naps a day. And he loves grapes. And cucumbers.”

“Thanks, Debs.”

“Call me if you need me.” And she walked out the door.

A few minutes later as Fiona was packing a bag of toys and snacks for Liam (because who knew what the shelves of the Milkovich pantry looked like), Lip entered the kitchen.

“Hey, I’m gonna head out.”

She looked at the bag he carried with him. “Back to school? So soon?”

“Yeah, Amanda’s still there. She didn’t go home for Christmas. And one of the robotics professors offered me some lab time over break, so I figure,” he shrugged. “Why not, ya know? Might as well get my foot in with the faculty. Kiss a little ass.”

Fiona smiled at him, proud of how far he’d come, how far he was going. Far back in the deep corners of her mind she weighed the option of telling him he should stay, help her out a little while longer, figure out the Ian stuff and help Carl catch up with the math homework he’d been skipping out on and make sure Debbie wasn’t hanging around with shitty friends and take Liam to the park and on playdates so he didn’t end up being the antisocial biter or something once he started school. She thought about asking him to stay so she could have a little more time pretending all that wasn’t on her. So she could have just a little more time to sort her own shit out.

But she could never do that.

“Okay,” she said instead. “I’m gonna go see Ian today. I’ll call you later with an update on him.”

“Okay.” He kissed her on the cheek and made his way to the front door.

“Hey,” she called after him, suddenly realizing that Ian probably told Lip a lot more than he told Fiona. “What’s the story with Mickey’s kid?”

“Story?”

“Yeah. He, what, fucked a hooker and knocked her up? That’s it?”

Lip sighed and scratched the back of his head. “Uh, I don’t know, I’m not sure I know all the details but from what Ian told me Mickey’s dad walked in on the two of them ass-ramming each other and he forced Mickey at gunpoint to fuck the hooker while Ian watched.”

“Jesus. You serious?”

He held his arms out at his sides. “I can’t make this shit up.”

 

* * *

 

“Where’s Debbie?”

It wasn’t one of the warmest greetings Fiona had ever received upon knocking on the Milkovich’s front door but it wasn’t exactly the coldest either. She stepped past Mickey and walked inside, throwing her coat and scarf on the couch.

“Babysitting. I told her not to come here.”

“Why?” Mickey looked uneasy, like he was expecting the other shoe to finally drop, like Fiona was going to tell Mickey that he was a bad influence or something.

"Hey, why don't you go play with your legos at the table, okay?" she said, handing the backpack to Liam. She looked up at Mickey again. “Don’t want you takin’ advantage of her.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mickey, you know I like you. And I trust you. But I also think you’re pretty messed up right now and not thinkin’ straight. Debbie would be here every day helpin’ you out if you asked her to. She’s too nice for her own good, and I don’t want you taking advantage of that.”

“I’m not takin’ advantage of-“

“She comes here and takes care of your baby while you, what? Lay in bed next to Ian? Waitin’ for him to move? That’s no way to live, Mickey.”

Mickey’s tongue swiped over his bottom lip. “You really need to learn how to mind your fuckin’ business.” He looked pissed. Fiona hadn’t meant to do that again – piss him off. She really hadn’t. But when it came to her kids she had to be firm. She wasn’t gonna let Debbie waste her days here while Mickey went on a bender or cried into his pillow.

She put her hands on her hips and shrugged unapologetically. “It’s just not what I do. Get used to it.”

“You wanna tell Debbie not to come here anymore, fine. But you don’t get to come here and tell me how to fuckin’ live.”

“Yes I do.” Maybe she shouldn’t, but she didn’t care. The things that Mickey did affected Ian and now Debbie, and that made it her business. “I get to tell you that you can’t stop your life because Ian is sick. You can’t lay in bed with him all day every day waiting. You can’t. We’re gonna get him some help when he’s feelin’ up to it, and he’s gonna get better, but it’s gonna take a long time. You gotta keep livin’ til then.”

Mickey didn’t say a word.

“And you’re gonna take care of your baby.” She picked the infant up off the floor where he was slobbering on a brightly colored toy that looked like a caterpillar. He dropped the toy willingly and smiled at Fiona, sticking his fingers in her mouth.

Fiona laughed. “Hey, little guy. Hi! What are you up to, huh? You’re just the chillest baby ever, aren’t you?”

Mickey had sat down on the couch, probably hoping Fiona was going to feed the kid or something before handing him over, but she didn’t. She sat the baby on his lap and Mickey bit his lip but surprisingly didn’t protest.

She started heading towards Mickey’s bedroom to visit Ian but then stopped. What Mickey did with Ian and Debbie, that was kind of her business, but what Mickey did with his kid wasn’t. She couldn’t rationalize getting too involved in that. And yet something, her motherly instincts or her experience with bad parents or her feelings about Mickey or _something_ , just wouldn’t allow her to let it go.

“You wanna talk about that?” she asked as she turned back around.

“'Bout what?”

“Your issue with the kid. I mean, I get he wasn’t exactly planned but he’s here. And he’s yours. And he’s not goin’ anywhere.”

Mickey scoffed and rolled his eyes. He held the baby awkwardly in one arm as he picked at the upholstery of the couch with the other hand. He tried not to look at the baby, bit his lip when the child moved to get more comfortable against his shoulder and grabbed a fistful of Mickey’s shirt. Debbie was right. This wasn’t just Mickey being too lazy to take care of the kid.

“I remember when I found out Monica was pregnant with Liam,” Fiona said, making her way back into the living room. She sat on the couch across from Mickey and smiled a little at the baby babbling as he sucked on the fabric of Mickey’s shirt. “I was so pissed. One more mouth I had to feed, ya know? I raised them. All of them. Thought I was done after Carl but then Monica comes waltzing back into our lives, eight months pregnant. Didn’t even give me a second to breathe before she was shoving another baby into my arms and runnin’ out the door. I was so young, ya know? I still am, but I guess I forget that sometimes. It’s easy to forget.”

Mickey swallowed hard and let his eyes catch a glimpse of the baby before looking back to Fiona, not having a clue how to respond to the sudden uncomfortable conversation.

“I know how hard it is, Mickey. I love my siblings more than my own fucking life, but I know what it’s like to be saddled with something that you never asked for. Taking care of them was just something I _had_ to do.”

“I don’t even fucking know if he’s mine,” Mickey said after a minute, and Fiona was relieved that his tone wasn’t challenging. It was soft, like he was hesitantly opening up to her, showing her a part of him that was entirely too vulnerable.

“It doesn’t matter. You think when Monica had Liam we actually thought he was Frank’s? And Ian, you think the day I found he wasn’t Frank’s, you think I started lookin’ at him any different? He’s my brother, one hundred percent, because that’s what he’s been since the day he was born. It doesn’t matter whose sperm contributed to him. Whether that baby has your DNA or not, he’s yours. He’s your family.”

“You don’t get it,” Mickey said softly.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t,” a little more forcefully this time but still reserved, like he wasn’t trying to pick a fight.

“No, I know I don’t,” she repeated, making sure Mickey understood exactly what she was saying. “I know I don’t get it.” _I don’t get how it feels to be raped while your dad points a gun at you. I don’t know what it’s like to look at a baby that reminds you of that._

_No one protected you. That’s the only thing I understand._

 “Just the way… it happened,” Mickey said after a minute of silence. “It was just- it was fucked up.”

Fiona nodded.

“Ian tell you?”

“No.” _Lip did_ , she could’ve mentioned, but didn’t. She’d let Mickey tell her if he wanted, and if he didn’t then as far as he knew she knew nothing.

“My dad… he wasn’t too thrilled about the idea of me bein’ gay so he- he thought me fucking Svetlana would fix things, I guess. Wound up getting a fuckin’ kid out of it.”

It broke her fucking heart to watch him say it, watch him pretend like it hadn’t been a big deal. She wanted to tell him it was okay, he could tell her what happened, tell her how he felt then and how he still felt now and how he had never quite been able to get over it, could never push the memory too far from his mind.

But she knew she had pushed far enough for one day, maybe for a lifetime with Mickey, so she just looked at him sympathetically instead, giving him a minute to say anything else but it seemed like that was all he was going to offer up. Fiona counted it as a victory. She walked over to Mickey and smiled at the baby, running a finger across the infant’s cheek.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what fucked up shit your dad put you through, Mickey. And I know fucked up. But this baby is going to love you whether you like it or not. Might as well try to love him back.”

She turned to walk towards Mickey’s bedroom, satisfied after saying her piece, but Mickey’s voice stopped her.

“What if I can’t?” He said it so casually that it didn’t even register at first what he was talking about. That was Mickey’s MO, Fiona had noticed. Ask the hard-hitting questions in a voice that made it sound like he didn’t care. (She had learned that most of the time Mickey cared a whole fucking lot.)

 _I don’t know,_ was the thought that immediately entered her head. _I don’t know what you should do if you can’t love your baby. I don’t know what’s gonna happen if you resent him the rest of your life. I have no advice to offer on that. I’m as clueless as you are._ She figured that wasn’t the best thing to say though; might counteract the effects of the big speech she just gave.

 _You will?_ No, too hopeful. Too much of a lie, because Fiona had no idea if Mickey would be able to overcome that.

 _No one will blame you?_ Too gentle. Like she was trying not to break him. People probably would blame him, to be honest. People wouldn’t understand him not loving his own kid.

 _Just try and see what happens?_ It was the safest answer, but it was a cop out. It wasn’t really answering his question. She wanted to be able to give him an answer.

“Then pretend to love him anyway,” and she walked into Mickey’s bedroom and shut the door behind her.

 

* * *

 

“Hey. Rise and shine, before you start growin’ roots into the fucking bed." Mickey opened the blinds, faint sunlight pouring into the room. "It’s Monday. Start of a new week.”

Ian rolled over and smushed his face into the pillow. “Sunday’s the first day of the week.”

Mickey smiled at Ian’s back, glad to hear his smug response even if it was muffled by a pillow.

“What the fuck ever, man. Don’t wanna keep Linda waiting.”

Ian groaned. “Fuck off, Mick.”

“You’ll be happy to be back there, Ian. Trust me. Just get up, you’ll feel better.”

Ian didn’t respond, just left his face buried in the pillow, but Mickey could imagine the clenched-jaw expression, nostrils flared and chin jutting out.

“Come on. I’ll go with you, maybe she’ll even be cool with you just workin’ a couple hours today, easing back into it-“

“Shut the fuck up! I’m not going back there.” The volume of Ian’s voice caught Mickey off guard; he had barely heard him say more than a whisper all week.

Mickey sat down on the bed and grabbed Ian’s shoulder roughly, flipping him over so he could see Ian’s face.

“You keep hanging out with those meth heads at the club and you’ll be goin’ nowhere fast.”

“Oh, stop acting like the Kash and Grab is a foot in the door to some magical, bright future.”

“Stop acting like the club is a good place for you to be working.”

“Why? Because I’m damaged? Easily influenced? Out of my mind? Not myself?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Mickey didn’t respond. He wanted to say _because you started working there when you were lost and had nowhere to go because of me, but now you’re here and I need to know that you’re gonna be okay._ But he didn’t, because Ian was right, in a way. The club was full of drugs and temptation and chaos and it wasn’t good for him to be there, especially now.

Ian shook Mickey’s hand off of him and sent him a death glare. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“Whatever. You don’t want my help then fine, sorry for fucking trying. You already fucked up your chances with the army, might as well fuck up every other chance you get, too, right?”

It was harsh, Mickey knew that. But gentle hadn't done the trick so he didn't know what else to do. Didn't see the point in trying to spare his feelings anymore. It didn't seem to do them any good.

 

* * *

 

Mickey walked into the Kash and Grab ten minutes before it opened, preparing himself for the undoubtedly fun conversation he was about to have.

“Hey.”

Linda looked up when the voice didn’t match the person she was expecting. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. The first day? You come and beg for his job back and you show up on the _first day_ to tell me he’s not coming?”

“I’m here.”

Linda was one of the few people who actually scared Mickey. When she was angry, she was ruthless.

“I can see that. Get the hell out.”

“Ian doesn’t want his job back. But I’ll take it.”

Linda laughed almost maniacally then stopped suddenly, her face turning back into a scowl. “No.”

Yeah, this was going to be about as hard as he expected. He had been shocked Linda had ever given him a job in the first place; he’d always meant to ask Ian how exactly he managed that but he never got around to it. Convincing her to give Ian his job back had been nothing short of a miracle, and now convincing her to let Mickey work there instead would truly be some kind of supernatural phenomenon.

“But you need-“

“Ian fucked up but he’s trustworthy. You’re a Milkovich.”

As long as Mickey had been alive he’d been hearing that line. _You’re a Milkovich._ You would think as many times as he had heard it he would know how to feel about it. But he still had no idea. Sometimes he felt like he should be proud; damn straight he was a Milkovich. Sometimes he felt like he should be insulted; for so many people his last name had become synonymous with trouble. It sounded like poison rolling off their tongues. And sometimes he felt like he should be ashamed _; I am a Milkovich, but I am not my dad, I’m not what you think, you don’t fucking know me_.

 “You can trust me.”

“No. You convinced me to fire someone to give Ian his job back when he didn’t even want it. Just get out. And if I ever see your face in here again I promise I’ll have you arrested.”

“You got no one else to do the job.”

“I’d rather close the store.”

She really wasn’t budging? What a stubborn fuck. Mickey figured his best course of action was to be as adamant as possible. Don’t take no for an answer. Show how serious he was about this.

He walked behind the counter to show her that he was smart enough to operate a fucking cash register when there was suddenly a gun being pointed in his face.

“I ain’t stealing anything.”

“You’re behind my counter and I feel threatened.”

Mickey knew she was being melodramatic. There was no fear in her voice. She knew Mickey wasn’t dumb enough to try anything. And yet her hands didn’t fall any lower.

“Bull fucking shit you feel threatened.”

She cocked it.

“Alright, alright. I’m going,” Mickey resigned as he backed away. Maybe pushing the limits hadn’t been the best decision after all. He gave her one last look, a look that could never fucking ever be called begging or pleading or needy but he hoped it said something like _come on, you can trust me, please?_

But in a way that didn’t make him seem like such a pussy.

Linda stood firm, her hands steady, and Mickey walked out of the store.

He hadn't gotten five steps down the street when he heard Linda’s voice again.

“Why’d you come here? If Ian didn’t want the job you could’ve just never shown up, never shown your face here again.”

Truthfully, Mickey wasn’t sure of the answer. It would be nice to have a consistent paycheck, not having to panic when scam opportunities got few and far between, but he knew this wasn’t like him. He didn’t need the job bad enough to beg. Linda was right – he could’ve just forgotten about her and left her high and dry. That was something he would do. And yet here he was.

Maybe he wanted to show Ian that they could do it. Hold normal, legal jobs. Maybe he wanted to make their lives (or was he just thinking about Ian’s life?) a little less chaotic, reducing the number of illegal activities they’d have to take part in. Maybe a small part of him was thinking of his kid. He was a baby, yeah, so he wasn’t exactly asking questions about what daddy did for a living but Mickey still felt like he was letting him down or some shit. He had a fucking wife and kid and yet his biggest source of income was selling coke.

Maybe it was none of those reasons; Mickey just couldn’t put his finger on it, couldn’t identify the feeling in his gut, but he was here, trying, so he might as well go with it.

He shrugged. “I told you he’d be here, he’s not, so I am.”

“I have cameras.”

“I know.”

“They work.”

“I know.”

Linda walked back in and Mickey wasn’t sure if she had just given him he job or not, but she didn’t kick him out when he followed.

 

* * *

 

It was late. No, it was actually only six, but it felt late. Mickey had just gotten home from a full day’s work at the Kash and Grab and was running on two hours of sleep thanks to his sick kid who had screamed all fucking night. He was thrilled to arrive home to a silent house; Svetlana must have taken Yev to work or to the doctor or something. Whatever, he didn’t care, he was just thankful for the peace.

He had collapsed onto the couch as soon as he walked in the door. He thought about going into his bedroom – there was a bed in there and he wanted to sleep, so it only made sense. But he knew Ian was in there. At least, he was pretty sure but he couldn’t be positive. And if he couldn’t be positive then he could pretend that he wasn’t.

Not for long. Just for maybe an hour or so. But if he could just sit out here for an hour with no screaming baby to soothe and no depressed boyfriend to stare at, maybe he could feel normal again.

It was a selfish thought. Mickey had been having a lot of those lately.

He had just closed his eyes when he heard Ian walk out of the bedroom.

“Hey, man. You’re up.” Mickey sat up straighter, trying to wake up a bit. He noticed Ian was fully dressed and was currently adding a coat to his attire.

“Yeah. I’m gonna head to work.” Ian still sounded a little off, his words deep and low like speaking any louder would be too much, take too much out of him.

“At the club?”

“Please just don’t, Mick,” Ian pleaded. He sounded so defeated that Mickey had no urge to argue with him, not now.

“Alright. Want me to go with you?”

“No, thanks.”

“It’s fine, I’ll come hang out. I got nothing better to do.”

“No, don’t. I just want to get out of here, okay? I’ve been stuck in this house with you for like a million hours straight. Just give me some breathing room.”

Mickey’s heart dropped into his stomach. He hadn’t been expecting that, didn’t realize Ian had felted _crowded_ by him. Well fucking sorry that he had been taking care of his ass the past week. Guess he should’ve just let him fucking starve to death. There was an argument there, for sure, but Mickey knew he was probably being petulant and taking it too personally. Typically that wouldn’t stop him from throwing a jab Ian’s way but he was tired and his head was starting to ache and he had absolutely no desire to sit in a loud club watching Ian let some dudes put their hands on him anyway, so if Ian didn’t want him there then fine, he wouldn’t go.

“When you gonna be back?”

Ian rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, a few hours? I’m not running away, Mick, I’m just going stir crazy here.”

“Okay.” That made sense. That was fine. He was fine. “You good?”

“I’m good. I’ll see you later.”

He was fine.

 

* * *

 

It was late when Fiona finally got home from the diner. She was exhausted after working a double full of demanding customers and shitty tippers. Her clothes reeked of grease and her hands were sticky from overflowing milkshakes and dirty dishes. She wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower and pass out in her bed.

She walked into the dimly lit kitchen and sighed, eying the stacks of dirty dishes on the counter and the piles of laundry that told her they probably didn’t have many clean clothes or towels left. Just the sight made her shoulders fall and her eyelids grow heavier.

She was filling the sink with soapy water for the more disgusting dishes to soak in when Mickey’s name showed up on her phone.

“Hey, Mickey.”

“Fiona.” That was all he said. With a strangled, desperate voice that told her everything she never wanted to know.

“What’s up?” she said worriedly in an attempt to remain calm until Mickey confirmed her fears. Maybe if she stayed calm, stayed optimistic, then maybe things wouldn’t end up as bad as she was thinking.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, like he was hoping she would just understand, so he wouldn’t have to say it. But she needed him to say it.

She listened to his panicked breathing, heard him curse under his breath as he struggled to find the words. “Mickey, tell me what’s going on.” _You never say the fucking words. I need you to say them._

She heard him take in a shaky breath and let it out slowly before answering. “He fucking- We’re at the hospital. I don’t know what the fuck he took.”

What he took? What he took. So Mickey probably hadn’t found him in a pool of his own blood on the kitchen floor. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. I rode in the ambulance with him, they said something about- fuck. I don’t know what the fuck they were sayin’, I don’t know what the fuck is going on.” He sounded so lost that Fiona didn’t believe it was real. Her brain was telling her it was a dream. _This doesn’t happen in real life. Your brother’s boyfriend doesn’t call you crying, telling you your brother tried to kill himself. That doesn’t happen. This isn’t real._

“Ok, I’m on my way.” She hung up the phone, and all she felt was anger. She was furious. Felt like she _had_ to find a release for it. Felt like screaming or punching or ripping her own skin off. That might do it. That might set her free.

But instead, she let the anger weigh heavily on her like shackles, gluing her to her seat in the cab. When she arrived at the hospital, she ran. Her feet hit the pavement and bounced back off it like there were springs in her shoes. She felt lighter than air but with the heaviest weight on her shoulders all at the same time.

She wasn’t even sure who she was angry at. Maybe Monica for passing on her shit-tastic genes. Maybe herself for who knows why. Maybe the universe. Maybe whatever higher power decided to shit on her family their entire lives.

She told a nurse who she was, who she was looking for, and the nurse directed her to a waiting room. Outside the waiting room doors she spotted him. He was sitting against the wall, knees pulled up close to his chest, fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. His face was wet, covered with fresh tears, and he was breathing heavily like he had just managed to fight off the sobs. When he saw her he stood, preparing himself for the spiteful words he was sure to receive.

As soon as Fiona saw him, she knew not one ounce of her anger was directed at him. She moved towards him quickly and grabbed him, hugging him tightly and letting out a few tears herself. For a moment Mickey fists remained clenched, arms by his side, but soon he wrapped his arms around the woman clinging to him.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed into her shoulder. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“This is not your fault.” She clung tighter, like she would hold Debbie when Frank had let her down or like she’d hold Liam when he had a nightmare. Like she wished she could hold Ian now.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She could feel him shaking, felt his chest move with his erratic breathing. Her anger grew stronger as she realized how many people were getting fucked over by this. Before she had been angry for Ian. First and foremost. So fucking angry for Ian. Because no one, _no one,_ especially a goddamn _kid_ who had already had a shitty life, should have to deal with this. The ups and the downs and the pure fear.  And she was angry for herself and Lip and Debbie and Carl and Liam, and now she was angry for Mickey. So fucking angry that they had to go through this. She had never been Mickey Milovich’s number one supporter, never quite understood what had Ian so infatuated with him. But now, her arms wrapped around him as he tried to push the image of his boyfriend’s lifeless body out of his head, she understood.

“Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay. You didn’t do this. You’re okay.”

“I don’t know what the fuck he took.” He said it a few times, and Fiona was itching to ask for the full story but she let him cry it out, let him sob into her shoulder because she knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d force himself to stop, to pull himself together and wipe the tears off his face and pretend that he hadn’t just broken into a million little pieces.

When he pulled away he opened the door to the waiting room which Fiona was relieved to empty. He sat down in one of the scratchy, uncomfortable chairs and Fiona sat next to him. Mickey sighed as he scrubbed his face with his hands, erasing the evidence of his breakdown.

“You call Lip?”

Mickey nodded. “Got his voicemail. Left a message telling him to call me back.”

Fiona nodded. “Probably sleepin’ or studyin’. I’ll try him again later.” Probably a good idea to refrain from leaving a ‘hey you’re brother tried to kill himself’ voicemail.

 _What happened, Mickey?_ She wanted to ask. Just looked at him instead. Let him catch his breath.

It didn’t take long for him to read her mind.

“He was at the club. Wasn’t answering his phone so I went looking for him. Found him in the back and he was just- he was just laying there, barely fucking breathing.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I shouldn’t have let him leave. I’m sorry.”

“I told you Mickey, you can’t stop your life because he’s sick.”

Mickey stood up. “No, no I shouldn’t have let him leave. He told me… fuck.” He ran a hand through his hair and stood, pacing in front of the chairs. “He said he wanted to get out of the house. Said he wanted to go to work, that it would make him feel better if he was actually doing something. He said- he said he was okay and he just wanted to get out for a while and I- Fuck, I just thought it was a good sign, ya know? He was outta bed, at least. He was talkin’ to me.”

“I know.”

“So I figured even if he didn’t want to be around me, it was still good, ya know? What the fuck- what did I expect? Why the fuck would I do that?”

“You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that he was okay.”

“But I shouldn’t have!”

“What were you supposed to do? Physically restrain him?” She grabbed his wrist to stop his incessant pacing. “No one can blame you for wanting to believe that he was fine.”

“No I- we fought. Argued. We argued yesterday. He was still stayin’ in bed but he was talking a little more, and I told him- God, we fucking argued about his fucking future and I pretty much fucking told him that he ruined every chance he had at having a decent life.”

Fiona stood and looked Mickey in the eyes. “You’re being hard on yourself, Mickey. I’m sure you didn’t say it like that-“

“Can you stop being nice for two fucking seconds? Why can’t you just blame me?” Mickey shouted. “Just tell me that it’s my fault!”

“Because I’m not going to let you off that easy. Maybe you’re used to being the bad guy and doing nothing right in your life, but you did not fuck it up this time. You need to own the fact that you love Ian and you have been doing nothing but your best to help him. Because I’ve been there, Mickey. I’ve told myself what I shitty person I was and I blamed everything bad that happened with the kids on myself, but guess what? I raised those kids and I did a damn good job and admitting that to myself was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Because that meant I had to be angry with someone other than myself. It meant that if I wasn’t accountable for the bad shit, then I maybe couldn’t fix it. I get it. And it sucks. But it’s the way it is. And you don’t deserve to be angry with yourself for something that was out of your control.”

Fiona was adamant on convincing Mickey that he had done fine, that this wasn’t his fault because she truly believed that. And it wasn’t going to do anyone any good for Mickey to blame himself. He shouldn’t have to be weighed down by that.

But she was also so adamant because this wasn’t about Mickey. It didn’t matter what _Mickey_ had done or how _Mickey_ could’ve prevented it. What mattered was Ian. This was about Ian. The sooner Mickey realized that, the better.

“Sit. Try to relax. You’re pacing’s gonna drive me up the wall.”

Mickey obeyed, taking his seat next to her again and settling for bouncing his knee and wringing his hands.

Fiona rested her head back against the wall and waited.

 

* * *

 

Mickey was half asleep when Fiona shoved a coffee into his hand. He willed his eyelids to open, stay open, as she sat down next to him.

“Talked to the doctor. She said he’s doin’ okay. They’re going to hold him for seventy-two hours. Monitor him and see where to go from there.”

“He’s okay?”

Fiona nodded. “They have to keep an eye on him and run a few more tests but it looks like he’s gonna be fine.”

Mickey let out a shaky breath and wiped a hand over his face. “Fuck.”

This was all too surreal. It felt like an out of body experience; whether it was because he was in shock or over exhausted he didn’t know, but Mickey still couldn’t believe that the past twelve hours had really happened. When he thought back to finding Ian at the club it was like he was looking in on the scene as an outsider. He saw Ian lying there, and then he saw himself kneeling by Ian’s side. He saw one of the other dancers rush over to them, ask if he was okay, call 911. He saw himself stroke Ian’s hair. But it didn’t feel like he had done that. It felt like it had been someone else.

“Can we see him?”

“Not yet. She said we should go home and come back in a few hours.”

Mickey shook his head. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“I think I’m gonna head home and take a shower. Change out of this. Let the kids know what’s going on.” She rubbed his forearm comfortingly. “I’ll be back in a few hours, okay? You need me to bring you anything? I can drop by your house if you need me to.”

“I’m good.”

Fiona gave him one last comforting, empathetic smile and headed out, and Mickey took a sip of his coffee before letting his eyes droop closed again.

 

* * *

 

Mickey’s eyes snapped open when he heard the waiting room door open. He was surprised to see Debbie walking over to him.

“Hey,” she said, taking over the seat that Fiona had occupied less than an hour ago.

“Hey,” Mickey replied as he stretched, still coming out of his cat nap. “Fiona here?”

“Not yet. She was in the shower when I left, and then I think she was gonna try to find someone to watch Liam. Didn’t really want to bring him here.”

Mickey nodded. “What about Carl?”

Debbie shrugged. “He left after Fiona told us what happened. I knew he wouldn’t want to come here. He kind of hates hospitals.” She pursed her lips and paused. “I think he kinda freaked.”

“Can’t blame him.”

“He was always really scared when Monica was out of it. I don’t think he wants to see Ian like that again.”

“You wanna see him like that?”

“It’s not about me. It’s about Ian. If Ian wants to see me, then I want to see him.”

Mickey was admiring Debbie for being a way better person than himself when his phone vibrated in his hand.

“It’s Fiona,” he told her, glancing at the text. “Said she finally got ahold of Lip.”

“He’ll probably be here soon.”

Mickey nodded and took a drink of the cold, forgotten coffee in his hand. Twenty bucks said Lip would hit him. Oh well. He couldn’t force himself to give a shit at the moment.

“Are you okay?” Debbie asked. Fiona was right; she was too nice for her own good.

“I’m good.”

Anyone would know that that was a fucking lie, but Debbie being Debbie and having that weird supernatural ability to constantly read Mickey like a fucking book knew even more. She knew how far she could push, but more importantly she knew how far Mickey _needed_ her to push.

“I remember when we found Monica. When she tried to kill herself. It was so scary. There was so much blood. She looked- I thought she was gonna die.”

“He took pills. There wasn’t any blood.”

“Did you think he was gonna die?”

Mickey looked at her, really looked at her. Tried to decipher why she was asking.

“Yeah.” _Thought he was dead when I saw him. Ghost white and so cold. Sat here all night waiting for someone to come in and say he died. Didn’t think there was a chance of any other outcome._

“What are you thinking about?”

Mickey smiled at her. “I’m good, kid. I promise.”

“Good as in you’re not gonna swallow a bottle of pills or good as in totally fine, not freaking out at all?”

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “First one,” he admitted.

“So what are you thinking about?”

He sighed. “Thinking about what comes next.”

“Fiona said we’ll get to see him and they’re going to keep him here for a few days. Suicide watch or something, right?”

“Yeah, but I mean after that. He’s still gonna be sick. Still probably won’t want to get help. He needs help.”

“Monica never got better.”

Mickey clenched his jaw. “That doesn’t have shit to do with it.”

“No, I know,” Debbie said quickly, realizing what Mickey thought she was saying. “I mean, we never saw her really try to get better. So we don’t know what it’s like. We don’t know what comes next either.”

Mickey stared at her, took in what she was saying. It was the first time that someone had actually admitted to him that they were as lost as he was, as scared as he was. That they had no idea when or how or if Ian would get better. If Mickey hadn’t reached his hug quota for the day, he’d probably pull the young Gallagher in for one.

He considered asking Debbie if she was okay, and it suddenly dawned on Mickey that maybe he hadn’t been asking that enough. Maybe he hadn’t been asking anyone that lately, other than Ian. The Gallaghers were, for whatever reason, helping Mickey keep his head above water and he just let them, let them keep him afloat as he never tried to return the favor.

It was almost excusable; it’s not like Mickey was used to asking people how they were fucking doing. Before Ian came along the only person he would’ve ever even considered asking that would’ve been Mandy, and that just wasn’t something they did. They bottled up their feeling and exchanged looks and comforting nudges but that was the extent of it. Milkoviches were never taught how to care.

With Ian it came automatically, and yet it was still something he had to work at. The feelings, they came a long time ago and never left. As soon as their _thing_ , or whatever the fuck you’d call it, started up, Mickey knew he was falling too deep, caring too much, even if too much at first was barely at all. Just enough to notice. Then Ian had to go and be all funny and nice and just fucking perfect and he quickly became someone Mickey actually wanted to hang out with, all the time, and when they weren’t hanging out Mickey would be thinking about him, and that’s when he knew he was done for. He was suddenly saddled with this unfamiliar weight, these foreign feelings that he didn’t know what to do with. That was the part he had to work at. Trying to figure out what he was feeling and why he was feeling it and what the fuck to do about it.

These days Mickey finally had it down. He was good at caring about Ian. It was easy for him to cuddle up to him in bed when he was having a bad day, easy to run his fingertips over Ian’s thigh as they watched a movie, easy to kiss him and hug him and actually show that he cared. He always wanted to know how Ian was doing, always cared about his answer, and could always tell what his answer wasn’t saying. Mickey had surprised himself at how good he’d gotten at it, and how easy it was now to open up to Ian without hesitation.

That was with Ian, though. Just with Ian. And it had taken beatings and bullet holes and murder plots and two stints in juvie and a marriage and a baby and Ian running away for him to get there. So to expect him to know how to do that with other people… Mickey thought that was a bit much.

But each of the Gallagher kids, even Lip, hell, even Liam, had been there for him at some point in some way. It was probably more because he and Ian were a package deal than because they cared about Mickey specifically, but the point still stood.

He looked over at Debbie, her expression soft, her hands playing with the hem of her coat, and he realized that he did care. He cared if she was okay or not. His pool of people he gave a shit about had gone from a puddle to a fucking ocean and he wasn’t thrilled by the prospect but the Gallaghers had wormed their way in and latched on and he could honestly say he didn’t want to try and pry them off.

 “You okay?”

Debbie looked up at him, clearly surprised by the question, but also looking a little relieved.

She shrugged. “No. I hate not knowing what’s going on, I hate that Fiona waited until this morning to tell me instead of last night. I hate being treated like a little kid-“

“Cut her some slack,” Mickey interjected. “She just didn’t want to freak you out until she had to.”

“No, that’s what I was gonna say. I hate being treated like a little kid, except sometimes I still want to be. I wish Fiona thought I was grown up enough to call me as soon as it happened like she called Lip. But I’m kind of glad she didn’t. It was nice to know that he was gonna be okay as soon as she told me.”

“You’re lucky they still treat you like that.”

“I know. Don’t you dare tell them that. They definitely don’t need to know that I _like_ being treated like a kid. Because a lot of times I don’t. But with this stuff,” she shrugged, leaning back into the chair. “Sometimes it’s nice. With the Ian stuff. Because it’s really hard to see him go through this.

“I guess it’s probably how people feel about their parents getting sick or hurt. For most people that’s like, the worst thing imaginable because parents are supposed to be strong and untouchable, and they’re supposed to protect you and take care of you. You don’t want to believe that they’re just human, ya know? But for us, I mean it was really sad and scary when Monica was sick and when she tried to kill herself, but it wasn’t- it wasn’t like that. All we’ve ever really seen of Frank and Monica is,” she paused and pursed her lips, searching for the word, “weakness. But with Fiona and Lip and Ian, they’re more like parents than Frank or Monica ever were. They took care of us and they always knew what to do. I never imagined them getting hurt or sick or not being strong or not,” she shrugged, “not being able to handle something. Does that make sense?” she asked, wrinkling her nose and fearing that her words had fallen on deaf ears.

“Yeah, it does. Makes a lot a sense.”

Debbie nodded, appreciating Mickey’s reinforcement. “And now Ian’s sick and I’m not okay. I’m scared.”

Mickey nodded. “Me too.” He wasn’t sure what else to say; he wanted to comfort her but had no words. He figured, though, that Debbie knew that. She knew Mickey wasn’t going to tell her everything was going to be okay. And she probably knew that just admitting ‘me too’ was pretty much equivalent to him pouring out his soul. So she was probably okay with the silence that followed. Maybe she had just needed someone to listen; someone who wasn’t an older sibling who would try too hard to protect her or a younger sibling who she had to be strong for.

So they sat there in a mutually appreciated silence until a nurse came and got them and they couldn’t pretend any more.

 

* * *

 

They walked into Ian’s room and a part of Debbie wished Fiona or Lip were there. She felt so young, so small, so incapable of handling this. And she knew Mickey felt that way, too. She was fine with being strong for Ian; she knew she and Mickey could put on their brave faces and act like everything was good, but inside they were both crumbling. She needed Fiona and Lip to be there to take charge and be reassuring, even if they were reassuring themselves just as much as everyone else. Because their words always seemed like they had more truth behind them. Even if they didn’t know, even if they _couldn’t_ know that Ian was going to be okay, Debbie still believed them when they said it. She liked it that way.

“Hey.” Mickey moved over to Ian quickly and sat on the bed next to him, taking Ian’s face in his hands and kissing him softly. “How you feelin’?”

“Fine. Hey Debs.”

“Hey.” Debbie took a few steps forward but stayed a fair distance away from the bed, away from Ian. Her instinct was to throw her arms around his neck and tell him she loved him but no, she was being strong. She had to pretend that everything was fine. She didn’t want Ian to feel like this was a big deal, didn’t want him to know that she and Mickey had been in the waiting room not so long ago talking about how Mickey had thought Ian was going to die and how Debbie was so, so scared and how lost both of them were.

It was just a normal day. _I’m fine, Ian. Just hanging out. Everything’s okay. I know you’re fine, I know you didn’t mean to take those pills. No big deal._ Debbie was amazed at the lies her face was able to tell.

“Mickey, they’re making me stay here. You have to tell them I’m fine.”

“They just want to check you out, make sure you’re good to go.” Mickey was clearly following the same plan as Debbie. No big deal, no big deal.

“They’re keeping me here for three days.”

“I know. They have to make sure- they don’t want something like this to happen again.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”

“Ian-“

“I wasn’t.”

“It’s just three days. Then you’ll be out of here, okay?”

Ian looked over at Debbie and she wasn’t sure what to do. Was he asking her? Asking what she thought? Asking for her help? Gauging her reaction?

When she had walked into the room Debbie had put her brave face on. But now she decided to take it off.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been spending much time with you lately,” she told him.

Ian and Mickey both looked surprised at the comment.

“It’s fine, Debs.”

Debbie shook her head as a couple tears fell down her cheeks. “I miss you.”

“Hey, it’s okay. Come here.” Debbie climbed onto the bed with him and buried her face in his shoulder, clinging to him tightly. “As soon as I get out of here we’re gonna spend a whole day together, alright? Just you and me. Remember when we used to do that? Remember when we went to the zoo? And got the huge ice cream cones? And we went and saw that movie- what was it?

Debbie sniffled. “ _Up_.”

“ _Up_! Yeah! Remember how much fun we had? I miss that.”

She remembered. Fiona, Lip, and Carl had all been sick with the flu, and Fiona suggested Debbie and Ian get out of the house for the day. Ian had protested for a second, probably not wanting to spend the whole day with his baby sister, but when he saw the look on Debbie’s face he agreed.

Debbie had been ecstatic. She loved hanging out with her older siblings, relished the moments when she was treated as a friend instead of a baby. That’s how Ian had made her feel that day – like they were friends, like he wouldn’t have rather been spending the day with anyone else. It was perfect.

Now Debbie was letting Ian hold her, letting him reassure her like she was a scared child, and she relished this moment, too.

She pulled back and smiled as she wiped the tears from her face.

“We’ll do it, okay? Everything’s okay. I’m okay.”

Debbie nodded and shared a look with Mickey. Mickey didn’t treat her like a kid. Mickey wouldn’t pretend that Ian was okay.

Debbie wasn’t sure if she was grateful for that or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with me on this! I think we have about 2-3 chapters left!
> 
> My tumblr: backstreet-gurl.tumblr.com


	8. Chapter 8

Mickey arrived at the Kash and Grab bright and early the day following Ian’s release, prepared to face the wrath of Linda. He was sorely lacking the energy to fight her on the inevitable firing, so he simply had to hope that if he ignored her and continued to work while she went off on him then she would just tire herself out eventually.

She looked up when she heard him arrive, then went back to what she was doing without so much as an evil glare.

“Hey,” Mickey said cautiously, not wanting to do anything to provoke her.

“Hey,” Linda parroted like nothing was wrong.

Mickey bit his lip, not sure what to do about the unexpected lack of screaming. “Sorry-”

“Ian’s brother came by,” Linda interrupted. If Mickey didn’t know any better, he’d say she looked sympathetic. “Told me what happened.”

The revelation caught Mickey off guard. “Lip?” he asked. Why the fuck would Lip do that for him?

“Carl.”

Mickey nodded slowly, still shocked. It made more sense - Carl liked him a hell of a lot more than Lip did - but he never would have expected Carl to even think of Mickey’s fucking job at a time like that let alone go do something about it. The thought of it kind of warmed Mickey’s heart.

“I shouldn’t have just not shown up,” Mickey said, still wary that Linda wasn’t at all pissed at him. He hadn’t let her know until the night after it happened (after he’d already skipped out on an entire day’s work without a word) that he wouldn’t be in the following day either, or the day after that, or the day after that. He didn’t give a reason. “Shoulda texted you-”

“You did text me,” she affirmed

“Yeah, but-”

She cut him off with a sigh, stopping what she was doing to look at him. “Are you okay?” she asked genuinely.

“Yeah,” Mickey answered quickly. Throwing out that word in response to that question had become routine for him.

“Okay.” She looked him over for a moment before nodding to some boxes. “Help me shelve these.”

Mickey got to work quickly, relieved that Linda was understanding. They worked silently side-by-side for a few minutes before Linda resumed their conversation.

“Is Ian okay?” she asked.

Mickey wanted to laugh. What a loaded fucking question. “He’s alive.”

“He home?”

Mickey nodded. “Came home yesterday.”

He opened up another box and continued working, but his mind was on nothing but Ian. To his surprise, he heard himself telling Linda more, unprompted.  

“Acted like it never happened,” he mumbled, looking down at his hands. “Normal.”

He’d found himself doing this a lot in the short time since he’d been rehired; falling into casual conversation with Linda like it was commonplace. Not anything big, just talk about Yev or her kids or the chip display or the tweens who frequently tried to talk Mickey into letting them buy alcohol. She was surprisingly easy to get along with if she let you. And for whatever reason, it seemed like she had taken a liking to Mickey. She was still intimidating and domineering and tough as nails but she also seemed kind of… well, human.

“What’d the doctor say?” Linda inquired.

“Observed him for seventy-two hours, said he showed no signs of being a danger to himself or others so-” Mickey raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He didn’t know what to think. He was happy to have Ian home, happy that he seemed fine but they were just back at square one now.

“Well if you ever need a day off again, some notice beforehand would be nice. But it won’t be a problem, I can get Travis to cover for you.” Linda’s tone was as nonchalant as ever with some added bite to keep up her reputation, but her words sounded sincere.

“That dumbass who used to work here?” Mickey asked. “Thought you fired him.”

“Didn’t so much fire him as cut his hours considerably. You think I’m here every second you’re not?” She stood up from where she was crouched in front of the shelves and put her hands on her hips. “I’m gonna go get the kids ready. There’s watermelons in the storeroom that need to be brought out when you’re done.”

Mickey nodded and she began to walk away, but something compelled him to turn to her again.

“Ay, Linda,” he called after her. He thought about thanking her - for not being pissed, for talking to him, for giving him this job, for everything - but that wasn’t really something either of them did. “You pay me more than that idiot, right?”

Linda glowered at him. “You each get paid what you deserve, Milkovich.”

Mickey smiled to himself as Linda headed upstairs. He totally got paid more.

 

* * *

 

When Mickey arrived home that night Carl was sitting on his couch, drinking his beer, eating his Pop-Tarts.

“The fuck you doin’ here, man?” Mickey asked. He looked around the seemingly empty house. “Who the hell let you in?

“Crawled in through a window,” Carl replied. “I think the lock’s broke on it.”

Mickey drew his eyebrows together, confused. “Why the fuck did you crawl through a window to get in here?”

Carl shrugged. “Didn’t want to be at home.”

“How come?” When Carl didn’t respond, Mickey took a wild guess. “You worried about Ian?”

“No,” Carl denied.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Mickey told him, knowing that had to be what was bothering the kid.

“He’s at our house,” Carl said as he stood up, moseying around the room.

Mickey swallowed nervously. “Something happen?” It wasn’t strange for Ian to be there, but the way Carl said it made Mickey’s legs feel weak.

Carl shook his head. “When’s your dad get out of prison?” he asked out of nowhere. He picked up an old boombox off a shelf and inspected it, turning it over in his hands and pressing the buttons.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Mickey replied, distracted. He was still worried about Ian - he didn’t know why Carl would mention him being at the Gallaghers’ for no reason - but he didn’t push for further explanation.

Carl placed the boombox back on the shelf and wiped his dusty hands on his jeans. “Shouldn’t you care? He’s gonna kill you, right?”

Mickey shrugged. “Not like I ain’t taken a beating from him before. I can handle it.”

“Probably wanna kill Ian, too.”

“I’ll handle it,” Mickey said, grabbing Carl’s forgotten beer off the coffee table and taking a swig.

Carl stood awkwardly before him, glancing around the room before changing the subject. “Ian ever tell you about the time Monica tried to kill herself?”

“Yeah,” Mickey confirmed. “This wasn’t like that.”

“He tried to kill himself,” Carl stated plainly.

Mickey shrugged one shoulder and shook his head. “Yeah, but it’s different.”

“Just because he used pills instead of a knife doesn’t make it different.”

“What’s your point?” Mickey pressed, unable to come up with a counterargument.

“Why’d they let him leave?” Carl asked.

“Said he didn’t seem like he was gonna try anything so they couldn’t keep him.”

“Well that’s bullshit!” Carl yelled as he took a step towards Mickey, hands curled into fists at his sides.

Mickey raised his eyebrows. “Are you gonna fuckin’ hit me?”

“No,” Carl huffed, relaxing his shoulders. “I’m just pissed.”

Mickey frowned. “At me?”

“At everyone!”

“Yeah? I know how it feels but it ain’t nobody’s fault so there’s no point in pickin’ fights.”

“It’s your fault!” Carl snapped. “And Fiona’s, and Lip’s. It’s your fault there ain’t shit being done about it!”

“What the fuck do you want us to do?” Mickey asked, remaining calm. If the kid needed to take it out on someone, might as well be him. “Like you haven’t been watchin’ all of us try to convince him-”

“How does he not know?” Carl interrupted.

“Know what?”

“That he’s crazy!” Carl exclaimed. “He has to know! He’s not a fucking idiot.”

“I don’t know,” Mickey retorted, suddenly feeling inadequate. Carl thought he should have all the answers and he didn’t have a single one. “He just fuckin’ denies it.”

“Well did you ask him how he feels?” Carl prodded.

Mickey sighed. Like it was that fucking easy. “He says he’s fine.”

“You asked him?”

Mickey chewed his lip. “I tried.” He had, right? He’d been trying to get Ian to admit something was wrong for the better part of a year. Or he’d been hoping Ian would admit it. Or he’d been hoping it would go away. Which was it, really?

“Well try harder,” Carl ordered.

Maybe he had a point.

 

* * *

 

Mickey ran the plan through his head over and over again while Ian was in the shower, listening anxiously for the sound of the water to stop.

This could work. Ian could be grateful that someone was finally asking him what he wanted. No bullshit, no dancing around anything. Just laying it all out and letting Ian talk, _asking_ Ian to talk, letting Ian know that he was still in control of his life. It could work.

The shower turned off. Mickey heard the bathroom door open, listened to Ian’s feet pad down the hall like a fucking countdown, each footstep bringing him one second closer. He heard a drawer open in the bedroom, then shut again, imagined Ian pulling a shirt over his wet hair, stepping into a pair of boxers, grabbing semi-clean jeans off the floor. Mickey wanted to run in there and wrap his arms around him. Like if he reached Ian before Ian reached him then the need for this conversation would go away.

Mickey didn’t go to him, though. He remained on the couch, feet planted on the floor, elbows on his knees, hands wringing in front of him, waiting for Ian to emerge.

The footsteps returned and suddenly Ian was standing before him, smiling. Fuck.

“I need to talk to you,” Mickey told him. His voice sounded weird, shaky, and he’d be pissed at himself for getting so worked up if it weren’t for the fact that so much was riding on this goddamn conversation.

Ian’s smile faded, his brow furrowing with worry. “You okay?”

Mickey pulled his bottom lip in, teeth scraping harshly over the skin as he stood. “Ian, when I found you… I’ve never been more scared in my fucking life.”

Ian breathed a sigh of relief, like he was glad that’s all that was plaguing Mickey, like he was expecting something much worse than talk of his suicide attempt. “That’s not gonna happen again.” He flashed him a reassuring smile.

“No, listen. I’m not sayin’ I’m the world’s best fuckin’ boyfriend or anything but I _am_ honest with you now.”

“I know, Mick,” Ian told him, looking confused.

“Because I love you,” Mickey said. He was being sincere, made sure it sounded that way, but it still felt wrong somehow. Like a guilt trip. Like he was only confessing his love so Ian would feel pressured to give him what he was asking. “I really fucking love you,” he added to try and strip away the guilt. It ended up making him feel worse.

Ian smiled, completely oblivious. “I know.”

He wasn’t getting it. Fuck it. “And I’m honest enough to tell you that. And I do shit to show how much I fucking care about you and - damn it, Ian, I fucking _need_ you.” There was no pretending what this was anymore. It was desperate and dirty and unfair and fucked up. But this was the only way Mickey could think of that gave him a shot, no matter how shitty it made him feel.

“You don’t have to do this, Mick. I know-”

“I need _you_ to be honest with _me_ , Ian,” he interrupted.

“I love you, too,” Ian told him matter-of-factly, like it wasn’t the first time he’d ever said those words to him. “You know that.”

Mickey wasn’t sure if Ian was intentionally trying to sidetrack him or if he genuinely didn’t know where this conversation was heading, but it almost worked. Mickey almost took the bait, almost stepped forward and pushed his mouth against Ian’s in a way that he never thought he would be capable of, a way that transferred feelings and emotions, more intense than Mickey ever thought possible. A way that meant something.

Because sometimes he did know Ian loved him. Sometimes Ian looked at him or touched him in a way that made Mickey’s heart skip a beat, shrouding him in amazement that this was really his life, he really had Ian and Ian wanted him. But other times he found it hard to believe, hard to comprehend. Sometimes it seemed impossible that he could be that lucky, that his life which had been nothing but shit from the beginning was now letting him experience something so beautiful.

And then Ian would look at him in that way again and Mickey would let himself believe it. It was an ongoing cycle, and Mickey would be lying if he said that Ian saying it aloud now didn’t make him feel both amazement and disbelief all at once. He wanted to live in that moment for longer, hold onto those words and let them sink in and say it back in his favorite ways: meaningful touches, lips on lips, his hand resting on the back of Ian’s neck, pressing their bodies close together, his forehead resting against Ian’s, feeling Ian’s warm breath on his face, close enough to feel his heart beating in his chest.

But Mickey shook himself out of this fantasy land and refocused himself on the task at hand. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I’m not gonna try to kill myself again.” The ‘again’ slipped out, and Ian froze as soon as it did. Mickey noticed but didn’t bring it up. He was after something bigger.

“Fuck, Ian, this isn’t about that either. How-” Mickey raised his voice, growing frustrated.

His anxiety had been building since he talked to Fiona the day before. She had called him and suggested they get the whole family together, sit Ian down and have a fucking intervention. It sounded shady as hell and it just didn’t sit right with Mickey, but they were all fucking desperate. Mickey informed her of his conversation with Carl ( _‘yes, Fiona, that Carl, yeah, I know, kid’s smarter than we fuckin’ thought’_ ) and said he wanted to try talking to him first. They hashed out a Plan A, deeming the intervention Plan B, and scheduled it for the morning, Mickey promising to call her as soon as it went down.

That was almost twenty-four hours ago, and by now his nerves were through the fucking roof. He took a deep breath and started again, more calmly. “How do you feel?”

Ian snorted, like this was a fucking joke. When he saw Mickey wasn’t laughing with him, his face fell into confusion. “What?”

“I want you to be honest with me and tell me how you fuckin’ feel. You had me and Lip and Fiona telling you what’s wrong with you all year and that was stupid and I’m sorry. I’m done with that shit. If you tell me you’re fine and you’re bein’ fuckin serious then I won’t bring it up again.” I was a gamble, for sure. If Ian decided to lie then there was no way Mickey could keep that promise, but he needed Ian to know that this was in his hands. It wasn’t an attack or an accusation. It was a question. “But you gotta fucking tell me, Ian.”

Ian looked at him, stared at Mickey like he was hurt by his words, and Mickey didn’t understand why. He looked scared and unsure, and then it all turned to anger. Ian clenched his jaw and shook his head, balling his hands into fists. Mickey thought he might take a swing at him, prepared himself for a fist to meet his jaw, but instead Ian stormed out the front door without a word.

Mickey stared at the place Ian had been standing just moments ago. He didn’t know what the fuck just happened. Didn’t know where he went wrong. He took a step towards the door, considering chasing after him, then stopped. What would he say? He didn’t have anything left.

He should call probably call Fiona. He didn’t. Instead he went into his room, laid down on his bed, and willed himself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

He awoke sometime later, blinking at the now pitch black room. He pushed himself up on his elbows, rubbing tiredly at his eyes before turning to glance at the empty stretch of bed to his right. Ian wasn’t next to him. The reality of the still fresh situation came rushing back and he felt his heart drop into his stomach.

The house was completely silent. Svetlana and Yev had likely arrived home awhile ago, now fast asleep in their respective bedrooms. He checked his phone, hoping desperately for something from Ian but knowing it was stupid to expect it. He knew Ian better than that.

And yet he was still disappointed to find nothing from him. There was, however, four missed calls from Fiona. Seven texts too, all from her.

_how’d it go_

_did you talk to him_

_I’m guessing not good then_

_call me_

_are you at home_

_Ian’s here_

_call me_

So he was there. Safe. Good. They could take care of him then. Do their thing. Try plan B. Mickey gave it his best shot. And now he was done.

He threw his phone to the other side of the bed and pressed his face into the pillow, doing his best to think about nothing as he drifted back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

At some point Svetlana walked in with Yev in her arms. Mickey looked at her blearily through squinted eyes, still half asleep. He waited for her to yell at him and tell him to get the hell up, to take care of the baby while she went out.

Instead she looked him over, pursed her lips, and shifted Yevgeny to her other hip.  “I call Ian’s sister.”

Mickey was asleep again before she shut the door behind her.

 

* * *

 

Fiona knocked harshly on Mickey’s bedroom door frame, attempting to wake him. “Five p.m. seems like a good time to get up and start the day,” she said loud enough to pull him into reality.

Mickey groaned, flipping to face the doorway without opening his eyes. “The hell are you doing here?”

Fiona’s eyes scanned the room, surprised not to find a slew of beer cans surrounding him. Small miracles.

“Returning your kid. I gotta get to work. Svetlana was supposed to be back by now but something came up.”

“Perfect,” he grumbled into his pillow.

“Brought you an extra one, too.”

Curiosity beckoned Mickey to open his eyes. “An extra what?”

“Kid,” she said as she shifted her weight to her other foot. “Need someone to watch Liam ‘til my shift’s over.”

“Jesus,” he bleated, an annoyed scowl painting his face. “You people have like twelve built in babysitters in that family, how is it you can neverfucking find one?”

Fiona scoffed. “I have two, and they’re teenagers. They’ve learned to bail before I get the chance to ask them.”

Mickey sat up and rubbed his eyes, lacking the energy to continue his whining. “Where’s Svet?”

“She was goin’ on a date after work.” She ignored Mickey’s eyeroll. “You gonna come over sometime?”

Mickey shook his head. “I’m done with his running away bullshit. Not gonna chase him.” He was trying to sound pissed off, but Fiona just thought he sounded defeated.

“I’m sure he’ll come back here soon.” Fiona mentally winced after she said it, not entirely sure how true it was. If she had to guess, she’d say it was more likely that Mickey would wind up at her house in a couple days. Between the two of them Ian was much better at withstanding their separations; he’d shown that tenfold.

“How is he?” Mickey grabbed the lighter and pack of cigarettes off the nightstand, smacking it against his palm a few times before pulling one out and placing it between his lips.

Fiona wondered if he’d ever look her in the eye again as he said something serious; it felt like ever since that day he’d told her that Ian was back to normal and she had fucking crushed him - God, that felt like a lifetime ago - he was hesitant to expose that much of himself again. Whether it was shame or embarrassment or anger or distrust Fiona wasn’t sure, but whatever it was she wanted it to go away, wanted to earn back whatever she had lost in Mickey that day.

“Good. Fine. Hasn’t talked to me about anything substantial but it’s Ian so I’m not shocked.” She watched him flick at the lighter, the sparks dying out as quickly as they appeared. “What happened?”

He took the still unlit cigarette from his mouth, his hands dropping back down to the bed in resignation. “I told him to be honest with me about how he’s been feeling and he just fuckin’ took off.”

Fiona quirked an eyebrow and nodded, not at all surprised by that explanation. “That sounds like him. I’ll try to talk to him, okay? Don’t mope for too long.” Mickey chewed his lip in response, still staring ahead of him rather than up at Fiona. “He walkin’ yet?” she asked as she bounced Yev on her hip.

Mickey, who apparently felt it safe to look at her now that the heavy moment had passed, shrugged. “Don’t think so.”

“That’s what I thought. Pretty sure I just witnessed his first steps a couple hours ago. Don’t tell your wife. I don’t know if that’s a big deal to her or not but hell hath no fury like an angry mama. Okay, he’s fed, he’s changed, he’s happy. We had hot dogs, didn’t we, Yev? Yay, hot dogs! And we found out how much you love ketchup!” The baby smiled at her animated voice. She sat him down on the bed and he giggled, swatting at the mattress before grabbing a handful of the sheet and putting it in his mouth. “Hope those are clean-ish. Liam’s in the livin’ room colorin’. I’ll see if I can get Debbie to swing by later, otherwise I’ll be back late tonight.”

“No big deal,” Mickey said nonchalantly, gesturing towards the living room. “Kid practically watches himself.”

Fiona nodded, getting the impression Mickey wanted Liam to stay. Maybe he just didn’t want to be alone. “Thanks, Mickey.”

She waved at Yev before making her exit, kissing Liam goodbye on her way out the door.

As she walked to the diner she tried to remember the last time she’d talked to Ian, really talked to him, and she was drawing a blank. The kid was kind of a vault and it helped that he was good at flying under everyone’s radar, but that didn’t mean Fiona wasn’t at all to blame. She could’ve tried harder, she should’ve known what was going on with him. Back before he moved in with Mickey, before Lip and Debs found him working at the club, before he joined the fucking Army, before Mickey got married. She should’ve pried, snooped, whatever she had to do. Ian was good at flying under the radar and Fiona had always been fine with that. Happy about it, actually. Relieved. It was one less kid she had to worry about most of the time. Ian never seemed to need much of anything, never demanded much from her, and she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It was selfish of her. It was stupid. She was proud of herself for raising the kids as well as she did, but she had fucked up plenty of times along the way. Not noticing Ian, not even attempting to notice him, had been a lengthy fuck up of monumental proportions.

 

* * *

 

Fiona climbed the stairs slowly, a sleeping Liam dead weight in her arms, drooling on her shoulder.

Debbie’s door was closed, but Fiona cracked it open carefully, the dim light from the hallway casting over Debbie’s peaceful face.

She glanced into Lip’s room as she passed, seeing Carl stretched out on the bed, using up as much of the space as he could. He’d taken up residence in there recently, trading his cramped bunk for the spacious full.

Light was shining from the boys’ room; Ian was sitting upright in bed, back against the wall, eyes staring lazily at his phone screen. Fiona offered him a small smile as she walked into the room. She placed Liam carefully onto his bed before taking a seat next to Ian.

“Hey,” she said, bumping her shoulder against his.

“Uh oh,” Ian drawled. "I don’t like the sound of that already.”

“Well, I’m about to try and have a conversation with you but I’m not sure how to do that without getting blown off.”

Ian sighed. “A conversation about what?”

Fiona shrugged. “Anything you want.”

“Anything?” he asked, eying her skeptically.

“Anything,” she confirmed.

Ian quirked an eyebrow, visibly confused. “Why?"

“Because I haven’t had a real conversation with you in months,” she informed him. She was trying to keep the mood light but her voice wavered, the reality of her words coming at her in a rush.

So much had happened in the past year or so, with Liam and drugs and jail and rock-fucking-bottom. And during that entire time there was a huge Ian shaped hole in Fiona’s life. Even after he came back he wasn’t involved, not like he would’ve been. Fiona often found herself wondering how things might’ve been different if he had been around. Lip was her rock and she was grateful for everything he’d done for her, everything he did while she was out fucking up. But Ian had always been there too, standing on her other side, the two solid presences keeping her upright. She imagined he would’ve been more gentle with her, more sympathetic. But it didn’t matter. There was no point in dwelling on what ifs; those memories would always bear an Ian shaped hole. All she could do now was make sure it didn’t happen again.

“Bull,” Ian refuted, cocking his head to the side.

“Maybe years,” Fiona said dramatically, eyes widening.

“Shut up,” he teased as he kicked at her foot.

“I’m serious. You’re like the secret service. I don’t know anything about you anymore. Talk to me. About whatever you want.” She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees, eager and ready to listen.

Ian chuckled and threw her a bone. “You guys doin’ okay here without my contributions?”

Fiona nodded. “We manage.”

Ian looked doubtful. “You being honest or are you just saying that because you don’t want me putting in any extra hours at the club?”

She didn’t want him putting in extra hours at the club. She didn’t want him to have to worry about putting food on their table along with Mickey’s. And it wasn’t a lie, not really; they managed. Lip brought home food from school when he could, Debbie babysat often, Carl found odd jobs where he could (or ran scams that Fiona was blissfully ignorant of). They struggled, but they were always struggling. They’d get by.

“We’re doin’ fine,” Fiona vowed. “Honest.”

She could tell Ian didn’t quite buy it, but he let it go. “Mickey doesn’t think I should work there anymore,” he told her.

“Fuck Mickey,” she replied.

Ian looked at her in surprise. “You don’t agree with him?”

“No, I do,” Fiona admitted, looking over at him sheepishly. “But I’m really trying to get on your good side right now.”

Ian laughed, shaking his head at Fiona’s confession.

“You guys have another fight about that?” she asked, attempting to bait Ian into talking.

“Another?” He furrowed his brow, clearly surprised that she knew about the others. “Jesus, Mickey doesn’t know when to shut up, does he? Then I’m sure you already know we didn’t have another fight about that.”

“Wanna tell me why you’re here, then?” she pressed. “Don’t get me wrong, we love havin’ ya. Could stay here til you’re ninety and I wouldn’t complain. It’s just… everything okay?”

Ian grabbed his pack of cigarettes and lighter off the pillow, turning them nervously in his hands before throwing them to the side again.

“Think my Army chances are shot,” he divulged.

Fiona sat up straighter, the new topic grabbing hold of her attention. “There’s other options.”

Ian shook his head. “Not for me.”

“Ian. There are plenty of options for you. You could go back to school, go to college, do whatever you want.” ‘Whatever you want’ might’ve been a slight exaggeration, but so was Ian suggesting he had no other options. She was just leveling the playing field.

Ian didn’t look convinced. “How am I supposed to just do something else when I’ve been preparing for the Army my whole life?”

“Did you really want to be there?” Fiona questioned.

“What?” Ian shot her a glare, like he was offended that she would even ask that.

“I mean, I figured you didn’t like it there. You tried to steal a helicopter and went AWOL.” She shrugged one shoulder, raising it up and dropping it back down slowly, cautiously. “”Thought you decided you didn’t want it anymore.”

“I never decided that,” Ian spat, but his expression soon changed from angry to uncertain. “Or maybe I did. For a minute. I don’t fucking know.”

“This isn’t the end,” Fiona assured him. Her heart ached at the sight of his pained face, at the sound of despair in his voice . "Ya know, you didn't always want to be in the Army. You remember that, right? Think you only started wanting it once you realized it was a ticket out of here. But before, when you were little, I remember other stuff you wanted to be. A basketball coach."

Ian rolled his eyes. "That was because I watched Space Jam and Lip told me I’d never be tall enough to be Michael Jordan."

"An astronaut," she offered.

"Yeah I'll start working on that,” he snorted.

"A teacher. A movie director."

"Fi-

“I know those aren’t things that you want anymore but I’m just sayin’. The Army wasn’t the be-all, end-all for you. There was a time when you thought your life might go other places.” She put a hand on his knee, forcing him to look up at her. “Maybe it’s time to start thinkin’ like that again.”

“I’ll see if the NBA is hiring,” he groaned. “Will that make you happy?”

“Thrilled.” Fiona grinned, ruffling his hair before hauling herself off the bed. She turned back to Ian when she reached the doorway. “Swing by Patsy’s for lunch tomorrow? I could grab a bite with you on my break. My treat.”

"Can’t,” Ian said casually, reaching for the pack of cigarettes again. “I have a date."

Fiona froze. "A date? I wasn’t under the impression that you guys broke up.” Shit. A date. She didn’t know what to think. Mickey would’ve mentioned a fucking break up, but she refused to believe Ian was going on a date while they were still very much together. “I don’t think Mickey’s under that impression either.”

“Relax,” Ian told her. “It's a date with Debbie. But thanks for confirming that you've been talking to Mickey behind my back.”

“It’s not behind your back, you just happen to not be around when it happens,” she said, attempting to hide her relief. “Hey, someone’s gotta tell me what’s goin’ on with you two, and he’s a much easier egg to crack.”

" _Too_ easy,” Ian grumbled.

Fiona shrugged. “I’m not complainin’.”

Ian shook his head in disapproval but Fiona was relieved to see that he wasn’t angry, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Love you, Fi,” she heard him say as she retreated down the hall.

“You too,” she called over her shoulder.

Fiona walked into her own room and kicked off her shoes before crawling into bed. She bit down harshly on her lip, struggling to keep the tears in her eyes. Every bone in her body felt overwhelmed, overworked, both physically and emotionally exhausted. The events of the past week seeped into her thoughts and it took everything she had not to sob. She was too tired to cry.

She took a deep breath in. They’d be okay. All of them. They had to be.

 

* * *

 

“I think Carl's avoiding you,” Debbie blurted out when they were on the L headed home.

They had spent the day together just like old times, bringing Liam along for the fun. They went to the movies, had lunch, wandered down Michigan Avenue, spent some time at the Shedd. It had been nice. Really nice. Debbie was able to forget for awhile that things weren’t good. She hoped Ian was able to forget too. She desperately wanted that for him.

That was why she stayed far away from anything that would bring them back to that. They spent the day pretending, avoiding the elephant trailing behind them.

But now, ten minutes away from home, the words had finally punched their way out. Not saying them felt like lying. Secrets and whispers and conversations behind closed doors and worried looks exchanged behind his back. It all felt like one big lie, like Ian was too fragile to be addressed, to be let in on their thoughts. She hated it. It made everything worse. It separated them even more from him. He felt further away now then he did when he was really gone.

So she told him, and he looked at her like she was crazy. “Why would Carl be avoiding me?” he asked, and Debbie could tell by his voice that he wasn’t expecting the answer she was about to give.

“Because he's scared.”

He drew his eyebrows together at the ridiculousness of what Debbie was suggesting. “Scared?” he said incredulously.

Debbie took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the stale air, readying herself. “Ever since we came to see you at Mickey’s the first time…” she trailed off, not wanting to tack the words onto the end of that sentence. It was clear when Ian cringed that he knew exactly what she was referring to. “Ever since then he’s been weird. He leaves the room when we talk about you. He usually only goes to Mickey’s when you’re not there. I asked him to come today and he, like, froze. Like he was thinking about it and he wanted to but he was too scared.”

Ian looked taken aback. He frowned for a moment before turning his face stoic again as he turned to stare out the window across the aisle.

It felt strange being this honest with him. Debbie was afraid her words might be hurting him, might drive him deeper within himself, but he deserved to hear them nonetheless. She gave him a minute to think, to process what she was saying, then continued with her candor.

“Mickey's scared too. Whatever he did, I'm not saying you have to forgive him but…” she shrugged and saw his eyes blink over to her, just for a second. “Just think you should know he’s kinda been going crazy worrying about you this past year. He probably didn’t mean to upset you.”

Ian moved his gaze, not to Debbie but down to his hands in his lap. His chin hung near his chest, his shoulders sagging with despondency. “You scared, Debs?”

He wasn’t denying anything. She wasn’t being coy, she wasn’t being subtle. She was all but saying the words: _you’re sick, you’re like Monica, you’ve been different for awhile, we’re worried what you might do next, you’re not okay_. And yet he wasn’t defending himself, wasn’t denying her thinly veiled accusations. The fact that he was letting the implications hang in the air without shooting them down or swatting them away gave her hope. It seemed close to admittance. Closer than they’d ever gotten.

“We all are,” she admitted frankly. “Are you?”

The silence that hung between them for the remainder of the train ride sounded like a deafening _yes_.

 

* * *

 

Lip found Ian on the roof just as the sun was about to set. He was lying on the ledge looking up at the sky, one leg dangling over the side.

Lip knew he had to have heard him come up, but Ian wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t acknowledging him. Maybe he was hoping if he ignored him Lip would go away.

“Fucking cold up here,” he said, announcing his presence and letting Ian know he wasn’t going to retreat.

Ian blinked slowly before sitting up, swinging both legs over the side of the ledge. Lip took a seat next to him, looking out at the houses before them as he waited for Ian to make the next move. They sat in silence for a few minutes as more and more light left the sky. Just when Lip thought he was going to have to bite the bullet and take a loss in the silent game, Ian spoke up.

“The kids are scared of me,” he said, his breath visible as he spoke. “Debbie and Carl. Shit, probably Liam, too.

Lip nodded in understanding. He looked down at his own feet kicking against the side of the house. “Lot of shit’s been goin’ on lately, ya know? And with the hospital and stuff… they’re kids. They don’t know what to think about their big brother trying to off himself.” He shrugged and looked up at Ian. “It’ll blow over eventually.”

Ian didn’t look back at him. “Think Mickey’s scared of me, too.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Lip told him earnestly, like it was the only thing that mattered.

Ian snorted. “Oh yeah? You’re not afraid I’m gonna jump off the roof? Or push you off?”

Lip raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips as he shook his head. “No.”

“Yeah, okay,” Ian said, unconvinced.

“I’m not. I’m not afraid of you, Ian. And fuck Mickey if he is.”

Ian looked over at Lip to judge his sincerity, then fixed his gaze back on the horizon. “It’s not all the time, I don’t think. Just…”

“Just when you’re acting like a raging lunatic?”

Ian glared at him. “Real nice.”

Lip grinned and punched lightly at Ian’s thigh. “Mickey’s alright.”

“Yeah?”

Lip shrugged. “You could do worse.”

“Wasn’t waiting for your approval,” Ian asserted and Lip knew that he meant it. Ian never relied on anyone else’s opinions, never asked permission. He was bullheaded like that. But Lip could also tell Ian was glad to hear his concession. Wanting approval and needing approval were two very different things.

“I know.”

“I’m not gonna jump,” Ian declared after a beat.

“Never said you were.”

“That’s why you’re up here, right?” Ian surmised. “To make sure I don’t pull a Monica?”

“No. I’m up here because I thought you might want to talk. Or just sit here and not talk. Whatever. Never needed a reason to want to hang out with you before. Now, what, I’m full of ulterior motives?”

“Kinda feels like everyone is these days,” Ian observed.

“Yeah, well, fuck you,” Lip said coolly. “I’m not.”

“God, would you listen to yourself? Stop acting like you’re any different.” Ian raised his voice slightly as he spat accusations in Lip’s face. “Talking _about_ me more than you talk _to_ me. Mickey, Fiona, you. Everyone.”

“I don’t say anything behind your back that I wouldn’t say to your goddamn face if I thought you cared enough to listen,” Lip stated. He could tell Ian was looking to start a fight, but Lip wasn’t going to make it that easy for him. He was good at staying calm, good at keeping his temper in check when he had to. Ian wasn’t as well-versed in that.

“Listen to you guys tell me how I’m turning into Monica?” Ian rolled his eyes, a sardonic grin stretched across his face. “No thanks.”

“Fuck, Ian, no one’s saying you’re turning into Monica. We’re saying you might have the same fucking disorder. Don’t twist our words.”

“Same thing,” Ian huffed.

“No it’s not. Look, I don’t think you’re crazy. I’m not scared of you and I don’t think you’re gonna jump off the fucking roof. Not everything that's wrong with Monica can be chalked up to her being bipolar. You're not Monica. Ya know, you take away the disorder and you're completely different people. Adding the disorder doesn't change that. It doesn't negate all your differences.” Lip sighed and ran a hand through his hair, leaving it to rest on the back of his neck as he watched Ian’s reaction. It was dark now, the sun having set completely on the city, and Ian was staring intently into the bleak nothingness. He was frowning, just slightly, his lips pressed tightly together.

Lip scratched at the back of his neck and stuffed both hands in his pockets before continuing. “And I get that you're scared to admit what's goin' on with you because of the shit we've seen but it doesn't have to be like that. ‘Cause _you're_ not like that, ya know? It's just not who you are."

“I don’t know who I am,” Ian muttered into the night.

“Yes you do. Don’t give me that shit. You’re the same person you’ve always been.” Lip waited for Ian to fight back, but it never came. When it was clear Ian wasn’t going to speak again, Lip threw in one final thought. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t think Mickey’s scared of you. I think he’s scared the same way you are, ya know? Scared about not knowing what the fucks goin’ on or what’s gonna happen.”

“Who says I’m scared?” Ian challenged. It seemed more automatic than genuine, like he had to defend himself even if he knew it was true. He was used to doing that, used to lying and denying constantly. Lip could see light streaming through now, though; cracks forming in Ian’s facade.

“I do,” Lip said firmly. “Despite me not being around much anymore I still know you.”

Ian took a deep breath, his way of signaling the end of this conversation. “Enough about me, how ‘bout we talk about you now, huh? You like not being around much? How’s school? What’s it like having one foot outta the South Side?”

“I think I’ll take a raincheck on the me talk,” Lip sighed as he stood up. “I just came up here to make sure you weren’t gonna jump.”

Ian laughed and shook his head. He seemed okay, and it felt like a huge weight off of Lip’s shoulders. He knew the moment was fleeting and Ian might be not okay by tomorrow or next week or sometime soon after that, but he had a shred of hope that Ian would get help. That he’d gotten through to him.

When Lip was almost to the ladder, he heard Ian’s voice again. “You know no one blames you for being gone, right?”

Lip turned and nodded, peering at Ian through the dark of the night. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey jolted awake when he heard the front door bang open. He was about to jump for his gun when he saw Ian, out of breath and red-faced.

“Jesus,” Mickey said as he relaxed back into the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to regain his grip on reality. He must have fallen asleep watching TV; the last thing he remembered was getting home from work, downing a six pack, and hearing Svetlana say she was putting Yev to bed so ‘turn the TV down and don’t sob too loudly.’

Ian marched over to him and placed his hands on the sides of Mickey’s torso, his fingers curling in to grip Mickey’s shirt as he pulled him up. Before Mickey could ask what the hell he was doing, Ian’s mouth was covering his own. Ian brought one hand up to cradle the back of Mickey’s head, his fingers running gently through Mickey’s hair.

Mickey kissed him back, surprised but not questioning, just wanting more. He knew maybe he should stop, demand Ian talk to him and tell him what the fuck was going on, but this was so much better. He could stand here and kiss Ian for hours; there would always be time to talk after. He’d had four days for his anger to build and then dissipate; with Ian’s tongue licking into his mouth and Ian’s hand cradling the back of his head, he had to try to remind himself that he was pissed… about… something. It was tough.

Mickey finally remembered how to work his arms, one snaking its way behind Ian’s back, the other rising up to Ian’s face, Mickey’s thumb resting lightly on Ian’s chin. Mickey’s lungs began to burn and he realized he had been holding his breath. He pulled away for a moment and let out a shaky breath as he kissed along Ian’s jaw before plunging into his mouth again. Ian’s tongue slid across his own and Mickey could feel the affection Ian was giving him, could feel it radiating through their kiss, through his whole body.

Ian pulled Mickey closer to him, their stomachs practically molded together. Mickey was content, feeling so at ease but so alive at the same time, and then so empty when Ian pulled away abruptly. Mickey stumbled forward, Ian’s sudden absence leaving him alone in the middle of the room, breathless and befuddled.

“Come on,” Ian coaxed, breathing heavily. He was at the door, his hand ready to open it to the cold night.

“Where we goin’?” Mickey asked. His lips felt swollen and he could see that Ian’s were too, bright red and slick and he wanted nothing more than to dive back in and pick up where they left off.

“Just grab your coat, come on.” Ian opened the door and walked out onto the porch, leaving it ajar so that Mickey would follow.

 

* * *

 

They walked in complete silence. Ian didn’t look pissed or upset and Mickey didn’t want to do anything to jeapordize that. He knew he’d have to bring shit up eventually. He _wanted_ to, eventually. But he saw no need in ruining the moment. He missed Ian more than he could fucking bear whenever he was gone; giving himself a few happy moments with him when he came back wasn’t a crime.

Mickey saw the baseball field coming into view and he couldn’t help but grin.

They entered the dugout and Ian pulled off his gloves, throwing them onto the bench as he made his way over to Mickey. He coaxed Mickey’s mouth open with his tongue and Mickey complied, getting back into it until he felt an icy hand slide down the back of his jeans.

“Fuck, man!” he hissed, jumping at the cold touch. “What are you doin’?”

Ian licked his chapped lips and unbuttoned Mickey’s pants. “Take these off.”

Mickey gawked at him. “It’s like ten below out here, man. My dick’s gonna get frostbite.”

“It’s fine,” Ian assured him, unzipping Mickey’s fly and palming him through his boxers.

“Yeah, it’s fine because yours is gonna be nice and warm buried in my ass.”

Ian broke his concentration on Mickey’s crotch and looked up at him, smirking. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Mickey asked, and Ian answered by pushing him into a seated position on the bench, kneeling between Mickey’s legs and dragging Mickey’s boxers down just enough to release his cock.

Mickey watched as Ian touched his tongue to the tip, just barely, and the heat of Ian’s breath on his skin sent chills up Mickey’s spine. Ian didn’t waste much time teasing, taking all of Mickey into his mouth quickly and suddenly. Mickey jumped slightly, overwhelmed by the feeling of Ian’s warm, wet mouth engulfing his cock. He settled back again, his head leaning against the cold concrete wall. Mickey closed his eyes and listened to the noisy sounds of Ian’s mouth moving around him, swallowing him up and then pulling back, lips kissing the head and his tongue swiping away drops of precome.

“Fuck, Ian,” Mickey breathed, both of his hands buried in Ian’s hair. Ian scraped his teeth delicately along Mickey’s shaft in response, making Mickey shiver.

Mickey felt his legs begin to shake as Ian took his lips off his cock to lick over Mickey’s balls, taking them in his mouth. Mickey groaned and Ian pulled his shirt up slightly to kiss at his stomach, biting lightly just above his cock. He pulled Mickey’s boxers down a bit more, finding the perfect place for his mouth on Mickey’s thigh and sucked at it while stroking Mickey’s cock slowly with his rough palm.

Ian was taking his sweet time and Mickey gladly allowed it. Part of him wanted to tell him to stop fucking around and just suck him off already, but another part of him wanted to stave off his orgasm for as long as possible. Maybe it was because it had been so long or maybe it was because it was one a.m. and he still felt half drunk from the beer or the lack of sleep, but everything felt so fucking good. Ian’s mouth on him, everywhere, sucking and licking and kissing and biting. It all made Mickey forget how to breathe.

He felt Ian’s mouth on his balls again, sucking on one gently before licking a wet stripe from the base of Mickey’s cock to the dripping head.

“God, Mick,” Ian breathed, licking up the trail of precome eagerly. “You’re so fucking amazing.” Mickey gasped when Ian swallowed him up again, the intense heat of Ian’s mouth a stark contrast to the bitter cold.

Ian sucked harder this time, his head bobbing more quickly. It took all of Mickey’s self-restraint not to move his hips, to fuck into Ian’s mouth until he was coming down his throat. But he wanted this to last.

Mickey left one hand in Ian’s hair, tugging gently at the roots while the other hand moved to grip the edge of the bench tightly. He felt close, felt himself grow closer with each movement of Ian’s tongue, and lifting his head to look down at Ian only sped up the process. He watched as Ian’s full lips dragged up then back down, nearly reaching the base of his cock.

“Ian,” Mickey sighed. “Fuck, Ian, I’m close. Ian.”

Ian looked up and met Mickey’s eyes, making no move to stop, telling Mickey he was good. But Mickey wasn’t ready to be done yet.

He took Ian's coat in his fists and pulled him up by the collar, tasting himself in the warmth of Ian's mouth. They kissed passionately, desperately for a moment before Mickey stood and pushed Ian into the wall of the dugout. He hastily unzipped Ian's jeans and released his leaking cock. He began to stroke it slowly, his thumb paying special attention to the head, then started to pick up the pace.

Ian's hand was gripping Mickey as well, matching Mickey's speed. It wasn’t long before Mickey felt Ian's movements begin to grow more erratic as he got closer, the panting in his ear growing louder. Mickey put his free hand under Ian's shirt, running his fingers soothingly over Ian's back.

Ian suddenly tightened his grip on Mickey's cock, groaning loudly as he spilled into Mickey's hand. Mickey stroked him through his orgasm before wrapping his sticky hand around Ian's on his own cock, jerking it with him until he too reached his climax. His forehead dropped heavily onto Ian's shoulder and he let out a low moan, his other arm wrapped around Ian's waist to hold himself up as he shuddered, his toes curling in his boots.

They stood like that for a minute catching their breath, Ian slumped against the wall and Mickey slumped against Ian. Eventually Mickey pushed off and stepped back, pulling up his boxers and buttoning his pants as Ian did the same. Ian reached forward and wiped his hand on Mickey’s jeans with a smile.

“Ah, dude! Fuckin’ gross,” Mickey said dramatically, but proceeded to wipe his own wet hand on his jeans as well.

Ian laughed, taking a seat on the bench. Mickey joined him, feeling the mood shift.

“We gonna do this every time we have a fight?” Mickey asked after a beat.

“What?” Ian asked, feigning innocence.

“Fuck and forget about it.”

Ian grinned. “It’s our own fucked up version of ‘forgive and forget.’”

“Ha ha,” Mickey droned.

“Hey, it was your idea last time,” Ian reminded him.

“I know. Not blaming you. Just sayin’, doesn’t really solve shit.”

Ian lit a cigarette and leaned his back against the hard concrete wall of the dugout. Mickey waited for him to agree or argue or chime in with his own thoughts, but no dice.

“We gotta start talkin’ about stuff,” he continued. “And I don’t mean yell at each other until one of us gets pissed enough to throw a punch or walk away. We need to actually fucking talk, or we’re just gonna keep makin’ shit harder for ourselves.”

“Insightful,” Ian chirped.

“Fuck off. I’m serious.”

Ian took a drag of his cigarette and nodded seriously as he exhaled the smoke from his lungs. “I know.”

Mickey rubbed the edge of his finger against his lower lip nervously. “And you can’t keep running away whenever shit gets tough.”

Ian looked at the ground guiltily. “I just had to get out of there.”

“Then take off for a couple hours if you need to. Tell me where the fuck you’re going. Tell me that you’re comin’ back. Enough leaving me for days or fucking weeks at a time, Ian. You just-” he paused for a moment, calming himself, and when he spoke next his voice was more gentle. “You can’t keep doing that.”

“I know,” Ian said sincerely.

They sat in silence as they finished the cigarette, passing it back and forth between them. Mickey was satisfied with the conversation thus far; it felt like they were getting somewhere. he didn’t expect Ian to say much more, thought, and he certainly didn’t expect what came out of his mouth next.

“I’m sorry,” Ian told him.

Mickey squeezed Ian’s knee in response because he didn’t know what else to do, never learned how to accept an apology, wasn’t prepared to get one from Ian tonight.

Mickey looked out onto the field, remembering all the times they’d been here before. “Man, we gotta come back here more this summer,” he said quietly. “Miss this place. Why ain’t we been back here in so long?”

“Because we have a bed to fuck in now,” Ian retorted.

“Yeah but this place has a history.”

Ian glanced over at Mickey and smiled. “Look at you, getting all sentimental,” he said teasingly, bumping Mickey’s shoulder with his own.

Mickey shrugged and smiled back. “Good memories, man.”

“Yeah,” Ian muttered. “Before everything went to shit.”

Mickey snorted. “Which time?”

Ian wasn’t mirroring Mickey’s smile anymore, didn’t laugh with him at their fucked up lives. “Why do things always go to shit for us, Mick?” he asked, discouraged.

Mickey’s face fell as he realized how much Ian was bogged down by all this. “It’s not this time,” he told him, squeezing his thigh. “Hey, it’s not, alright? We’re gonna be okay.”

Ian shook his head. His lower lip quivered and his eyes glistened. “No, no I-” he took a deep breath in. “I feel off. Some days. Not all the time.”

Mickey didn’t move, didn’t say a word. He was afraid to breathe, afraid of doing anything that might make Ian stop. So he sat patiently waiting for him to continue, his hand remaining a steady weight on Ian’s thigh.

“I don’t know how to explain it. Just- fuck, I don’t know. Sometimes I notice it when it’s happening and sometimes I don’t notice it til after.” A few tears had escaped, sliding quickly down his cheeks and Mickey had an urge to kiss him and wipe them away. “I hate it. But sometimes it’s not that bad, ya know? Sometimes I feel great, like I could do anything. But sometimes it really freaks me out. I just- I fucking hate that this is my life. I hate that there’s something wrong with me.”

Mickey couldn’t hold his tongue anymore. He brought a hand up to cup Ian’s face, his thumb brushing over the tear tracks. “Hey, hey.” His words were hushed. “It’s gonna be alright, okay? Everything’s gonna be fine. We’ll get you some help and things’ll get better.”

“I fucking hate that I need help,” Ian confessed, his frustration boiling over.

“It’s not a bad thing, Ian. People need help sometimes, it’s normal. So you talk to a shrink a couple times, big deal. It’s not like you’re the only person who could use some time with a fuckin’ shrink. You’re no less sane than the rest of us. Only difference is you need to take some pills to keep you in check.”

“Kind of a big difference,” he chuckled. Mickey shrugged and Ian’s face turned somber before he spoke again, softly. “I hate that I’m sick, Mick.”

Mickey didn’t know what to say to that. He racked his brain, combed through a few reassuring options but decided against them. Maybe Ian didn’t need more reassurance. He didn’t need someone telling him that it wasn’t a big deal or that he’d be okay or that it could be worse. Maybe he just needed someone to hear him say those words, hear him admit it, and let him sulk.

Mickey grabbed Ian’s hand and held it tightly in his own as they sat in the dugout, cold and exhausted, both figuring out how to breathe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end, just one chapter left! Thank you so much for sticking with me.
> 
> And thanks to Shannon for reading it over, fixing it up, and giving great feedback.
> 
> I'm on tumblr @ backstreet-gurl


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